THE BIRTHDAY AND THE LETTER.
I took the scroll; I could not brook
An eye to gaze on it save mine.
* * * * *
But oh, to-night, those words of thine
Have brought the past before me;
The shadows of long-vanished years
Are passing sadly o'er me.--Miss Landon.
Dr. Carollyn arose late the next morning; a night of unrest had hardly
decided him to obey his better nature. With the breakfast which
he ordered in his chamber came two or three packages left at the
door that morning from the princely establishments of merchants and
jewelers which he had visited the previous day. They were presents
for Elizabeth. This very day was her eighteenth birthday; and these
were some of the costly gifts he had pleased himself selecting for his
daughter.
The blue silk dress--her mother's favorite color--of a new and lovely
shade, rich and lustrous; the coronal and necklace of pearls, the
cashmere shawl, the dainty perfumes in bottles filagreed with gold--he
set the packages before him on the table, not offering to untie them,
staring at them coldly, as he trifled with his coffee and toast.
Unreasonable as the black jealousy which had once blotted the sunshine
out of that house was the anger with which he thought of the man who
had yesterday intruded himself into his new-made Paradise. "Was he
never to have any peace?"
We are afraid peace is not purchased with such a temper as yours, Dr.
Carollyn.
In the mean time Elizabeth had gone down to the solitary breakfast
room, tremulous with love and tears, meaning to throw herself upon
her father's breast and speak for Nat the words he was too proud to
urge for himself. When she found herself alone at the meal, of course
appetite and courage failed; she went to her chamber, and gazed out at
the golden sunshine as if it had been a great gray cloud drifting up
and obscuring her birthday--her birthday! yes, she was eighteen, and
she remembered with a thrill the faded yellow envelope lying carefully
locked amid her most precious treasures, which had held for so many
years the letter of her dead mother awaiting this very day.
With a reverend touch she now drew forth this missive, and with
careful, trembling fingers broke the seal; a mist swam before her eyes
as she first gazed at this delicate, indistinct chirography, but it
cleared away with the kiss she pressed upon the paper.
Between herself and her father there had never been any explicit
understanding as to the melancholy causes of the separation of the
parents; the subject was one so painful that it had been avoided, with
the confession of Dr. Carollyn that all the fault had been his, and
that sometime her child should know all that he could tell her of the
life and character of her adored, her angelic mother.
A desire to understand the mystery mingled with the reverent affection
with which the young girl began the perusal of the letter:
"My own dear Child--my Daughter:--I tremble while I write the word
daughter, for I feel how much sadder, more deadly perilous it will be
for my poor orphan, that she is born to the heritage of woman. Before
you came to me I prayed that you might be a boy, and if I regret that
my prayer was not answered, you will know that my love and solicitude
are in proportion to my regret.
"When you read this, if you ever do, you will have come to woman's
estate; now, while I write, you sport in the grass and flowers at my
feet, scarcely able to balance yourself on the unequal ground, your
bright hair blowing about your face in little rings, your eyes trying
to catch mine, full of laughter and love, so innocent, so gay--yet, oh
God, so like his own--yes, darling, they are his eyes which look at me
constantly through my baby's. I stop, to catch you to my heart, to hold
you there till you cry with the cruel fondness, and I set you down, and
push you softly away--for I would not hurt you even with my love! ah,
no! it is so dreadful to love only to be killed by love. It is strange
that I love him yet, seeing that he has wronged me in such a manner
that I can never go back to him, never have any more happiness or
faith; but I do--I do, and the very perfectness with which I loved him
makes the impossibility of my ever going back to him again, who gave me
my death-blow so pitilessly.
"Yesterday I chanced upon some lines--written by a woman. I know they
were--which told my story partly--all but the love--the despair--for
it was the hand dearest to me in the world which sent the arrow, and
_that_ is what murdered me.
"A whisper woke the air,
A soft, light tone, and low,
Yet barbed with shame and woe.
Ah! might it only perish there,
Nor further go!
* * * * *
"It was the only _heart_ it found--
The only heart 'twas meant to find,
When first its accents woke.
It reached the gentle heart at last,
And that--it broke!
"Low as it seemed to other ears,
It came a thunder crash to hers--
That fragile girl so fair and gay.
'Tis said a lovely humming-bird,
That dreaming in a lily lay,
Was killed but by the gun's _report_
Some idle boy had fired in sport;
So exquisitely frail its frame
The very _sound_ a death blow came:
And thus her heart, unused to shame--
Shrined in its lily too--
Her light and happy heart, that beat
With love and hope so fast and sweet,
When first that cruel word it heard,
It fluttered like a frightened bird--
Then shut its wings and sighed,
And with a silent shudder, died!"
"I was not so happy as that poor girl to die so quickly, but the wound
was none the less fatal that it was the more lingering. I thought I
could not, would not live--and perhaps it was you, growing in my life
and soul, whose expected coming held me back. But I am going now and
soon. _Now_ I wish that I were to live. I would be willing to endure
years of worse sorrow, for the privilege of shielding my poor little
baby flower from the world's harshness. But the desire comes too late.
I must leave you, leave my little helpless orphan girl to the mercy of
every wind that blows.
"My darling, you will surely think your mother mad or foolish. I began
this letter because I could not go away from earth without leaving you
some token of the unspeakable tenderness I feel--some message from
_your mother_. And I have only been talking of myself and of griefs
with which I should not have saddened your girlish heart.
"It has been a question which I have debated long and anxiously,
whether I ought to send you to him upon whom you have a child's
claim--whether I have any right to keep you from the name and fortune
and the paternal care to which you are entitled. God forgive me if I
have chosen wrong--if that which I have suffered has so clouded my
vision that it seems better to me that you should take the risk of
happiness in this humble, secluded home, rather than in that brilliant
sphere which has proved not so bright as it is cold and pitiless.
"_Here_ my soul has never been wounded; _here_ suspicion, distrust,
has never been manifest--only the kindness and affection of honest,
unsophisticated hearts. Am I wrong, then, in leaving you to such
guardianship, sure to be true and unpretending, even though I wrong you
out of a more splendid heritage--out of worldly wealth and fictitious
tenderness? It seems to me, who have been hurled so suddenly from my
pinnacle of bliss, as if the lowest rest were the safest. And who
knows?--it might even be if I sent to him the child of _our love_
that he might deny you, my innocent little angel babe, the claim upon
him which you have? Would it be more cruel than the wrong he visited
upon his wife? No! I will not trust you to him--to your own father,
Elizabeth!--though I love him still as completely as the day he led me
to our wedding rites.
"But if fate should throw you into his care--if he should seek you
and find you and seize upon you as _his_, absorb you into himself,
fatally, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father, in whose
presence I shall be dwelling, that he may never darken your life as he
has mine--that he will cherish you, not for his own, but _your_ sake,
love you, as your mother loves, self-forgetting, for your happiness and
not his own glory. I will pray that that iron will of his, to which I
delighted to yield, which I felt only as a band of flowers, because I
loved him so, may never tighten about your heart, as it did about mine.
I will pray and trust--God will be good to my little orphan girl. I
leave you to _Him_, rather than to any earthly father.
"And now, I have said nothing, can say nothing. Only that I love my
child--that I go away from her with a pang which only dying mothers
feel--that I will, if it is permitted me, still watch over her from the
blue hights of heaven--that I expect to meet her, some happy future
day, in the pure eternal city.
"The little mementoes which I shall be able to leave you will be dear
to you because they have been dear to your mother. Among them is my
wedding-ring. Keep it for your bridal. Good-by, my daughter--it is so
hard to say good-by.
"If it should prove, by the time you read these words, that you have
found your father, I need not tell you to love him, for none can help
that; you will be a good daughter; but, if he stands between you and
happiness, plead with him, for _my sake_, to deal gently with my child.
And so, again, good-by. God bless and keep you, my darling. Good-by.
You will come to me sometime, after you have done with this brief
world. Till then, God will be with my child.
"Your mother,
"Annie St. John Carollyn."
Elizabeth's tears were dropping upon the faded letter--that wayward,
fond, not overly-wise letter which had evidently torn itself out of
the mother's heart, whether she would or not, and written itself
down, without thought of wisdom or plan. And yet, as by some strange,
prophetic foreboding, had she not pictured forth the future precisely
as it now stood?
Again and again she read the passage:
"If he should seek you and find you and seize upon you as _his_, absorb
you fatally into himself, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly
Father," etc.; and as she brooded over it, her tears ceased to fall, a
light came into her face, and she whispered, looking up:
"My dear mother is praying for me now; she is watching over me,
softening my father's pride, blessing _our_ love--yes! she approves my
love for Nat--_she_ will plead our cause. I will not go proudly away
from my father, as I intended, when he so insulted my lover last night.
I will take him my mother's letter, and that shall be our peacemaker."
With the letter in her hand she went to her father's door; but her
knock remained unanswered. She had not heard him leave the house, and
stood irresolute, half-minded to intrude, without being bidden, into
his presence. While she hesitated, the door of the room adjoining was
partially unclosed. She looked up in surprise, for it was the chamber
forever closed, into which she had not been permitted to look since
she entered the house--the chamber where only the master went, alone,
at night, to surround himself with ghosts of the past--her mother's
bridal-chamber.
"Come in here, Annie!"
She hardly knew her father's voice, oppressed with emotions which his
pride endeavored to subdue; but she caught a glimpse of his face,
troubled, and wet with tears, and she sprung forward, forgetful in an
instant of her own wishes, flinging her arms about his neck. Softly
he closed the door, and the two were in the apartment, haunted by the
long-vanished presence of one, the young, the beautiful, the happy--the
dead wife and mother--the tragic close of whose brief dream of bliss
had overshadowed the luxury and beauty of this spot with a darkness
which could be lifted in this world--"nevermore!"
Timidly Elizabeth looked around, moved by a curiosity that was all
reverence and love. The blinds of one window were flung open and the
sunshine burst through, melting into the amber drapery of the heavy
silk curtains like topazes into gold. Save that the furniture was kept
scrupulously free from dust, proving the frequency of her father's
visits, scarcely an article seemed to have been moved from its place
in all those years. Curtains of amber silk corresponding with those of
the windows draped the bed, faded by time, but otherwise unchanged. The
party-dress which the bride had worn that fatal evening, lay across
the pillows where she had thrown it when she exchanged it for the
traveling suit in which she made her escape. The little satin slippers
of the same color as the dress, stood side by side on the carpet near
by. The sight of these touched the young girl beyond all else; she
sprung to them, took them up, kissed and pressed them to her bosom, all
unreflecting of the pang the impulsive action inflicted on another,
until a sound like that of a strangled sob, caused her to replace
them, and return to Dr. Carollyn, who had sunk into the chair nearest
him--her favorite chair, a dainty, cushioned thing of amber satin
brocade, well fitted for a lady's chamber.
"Dear father," she said, holding his hand, and looking into his eyes
with a love which ought to have satisfied him.
"Yet you wish to throw me away--you love another better than me," were
the words he said.
He had not meant to say them; he had come into that room for the
purpose of obtaining complete mastery over the tyrannous part of
himself, and he thought had conquered it forever; and he had no more
than said them, before he was ashamed, adding quickly:
"I do not blame you for it, little one. I shall not oppose you--only
I have had you such a brief time to myself. Is it strange I was
disconcerted to find myself put away so soon?"
"Not put away, dear father--not loved any less, but rather more than
ever. Oh, father, I know you will not condemn a happiness which you
once knew so sweet. Do you know I am eighteen to-day? I have been
reading my mother's letter; here it is--read it, too, will you not?"
She thrust it into his trembling hand; she dared not look at him, but
went and sat at the window while he read.
The silence was long and oppressive; at length she ventured to turn
to her father, and saw him sitting motionless, with bowed head, great
tears rolling silently down his face and dropping upon the paper
clutched in his hand. She stole to his feet, knelt, and clasped her
hands over his knee, looking up at him with a glance full of sympathy
and confidence--she trusted to the power of the mother up in heaven who
had said that she should watch over her at this crisis.
"She knew me better than I knew myself," muttered the proud man; "I do
not wonder that she wanted to hide you away from my selfishness, Annie."
"Yet she loved you so, through it all," murmured the young girl.
"She did. The letter is like herself--her goodness is more than I can
bear. But it is not too late for me to prove myself worthy of that love
yet. No, my child, I will not wring the life out of your warm young
heart with this steely will of mine. Where is this lover of yours? Send
for him. Be he bear or buffalo, wild Indian or adventurer, he shall be
my son. You shall share with him all that I have to give."
"He is neither bear nor buffalo," cried Elizabeth, smiling through her
tears. "If you will only take a good look at him, papa, you will see
what he is--you will not be ashamed of him."
"Pshaw!" muttered Dr. Carollyn, rising, and shaking himself. "But where
did you say he could be sent for, little one?"
"At the Metropolitan, I am quite sure he said."
"No doubt of it, then. Come, I will send Pomp with an invitation, in my
own name, for him to dine with us this evening. Come into my room, and
while I am writing the note you can be examining these parcels, which
seem to be directed to you."
They passed out into his bedchamber, and while he quietly indited
quite a lengthy note, for an invitation to dinner, Elizabeth untied
the precious packages one by one. It was not the beauty and splendor
of these birthday presents, however delightful these were, which gave
that rich bloom to her cheek, that lustrous gladness to her eyes. One
stolen glance at her radiant countenance half repaid her father for the
sacrifice he was making.
That was a memorable evening in the household calendar. When the
three sat down to the repast--which, in honor both of the birthday
and the betrothal, was served with the most sumptuous appointments of
which the establishment was capable--the haughty physician, divesting
himself of the ugly green spectacles of jealousy, looked at his guest
with fair, appreciative eyes. He was forced to admit that this great,
overgrown, self-willed son of his was no unfit match for his daughter;
in fact, that he was really a magnificent man, with brain and talent
enough for half a dozen; and, what he liked better than all else, with
self-respect enough to know and maintain his rights.
"No danger of my hurting him with my iron will," smiled Dr. Carollyn to
his own thought, as he measured the strength of his whilom antagonist,
but now friend and son.
And he liked the idea--for proud people respect pride in others; and,
since Annie would fall in love and be married, he could not remember
any young man in the whole circle of his acquaintance, who, all things
considered, was so satisfactory.
So he made himself very agreeable at that little dinner; and after it
was over, and they had talked together awhile in the library, he made
an excuse to withdraw to his own room, leaving the young girl showing
her gifts to her lover, and the two were alone with their happy hopes.
Youth and beauty, and love and peace--let us leave them upon the
threshold of the promised future. We can see the light which shines out
of the opening door; the twain step over and disappear in the enchanted
atmosphere within.
THE END.
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