"ROSEDALE."
Come with me, gentle reader, to the sunny south, to the land of orange
groves, where the air is sweetest and the sky is bluest; where nature's
lyre does not of necessity get unstrung or lose her summer melodies as
winter breaks in with harsh, discordant notes to jar the ear and chill
the rich, warm blood. Come to the land of flowers, of poetry, of dreams.
Hard seems the fate which thrusts a "serpent into every paradise," in
whose trail death follows, withering up its freshness and throwing a
net-work of decay over its richest beauties. Yet such is the intruder
blighting many homes in the cold regions of the bustling north, as well
as in the clime where the sweet singers of the faded woods delight to
pour out their winter's songs. Alas! that it should be so.
"Why, my Lily-Bell, how faded you look this morning! Worse than the rose
you wore in your hair last night. Now let me wager something. What shall
it be? Ah! my yesterday's letter against your's of yesterday, also, that
I can divine the cause. Shall it be? Ah! that smile! It was like the
morning zephyrs sporting with the withered petals of my 'Lily-Bell.' Let
me kiss back its beauty, or breath some of my exuberance into it, which
seems so worthless in its prodigality," and the lively little lady bent
over the invalid's chair and kissed over and over again the brow of her
companion.
"There! there! Look quickly! Two little rose leaves of unquestionably
pinkish hue are fluttering in close proximity to those lovely dimples.
But they have flitted away again. What a pity that beauty is so
fleeting."
"I should think you would despair, dear Grace, of charming one into life
who has been so long dead. The task would be more congenial to your
taste, I imagine, to roll me up and lay me away in your casket of
precious relics for memory to grow sentimental over in future years. Why
do you not do it, _la Petite_? Own that you are weary, as the rest do,
and thrust me out of sight."
"No, indeed; I have no passion for musty relics. Come, let us away to
the drawing-room. It is nearly time for breakfast."
"Are you aware, cousin mine, of the compliments you have been showering
upon me, 'fading, withering,' etc.? To tell the truth, I am quite
unwilling, under their pressure, to appear before our brilliant guests,
understanding now the full array of blemishes of which I am the
possessor."
"I was only prattling, Lily-Bell. Nothing human could be purer or
sweeter than that face of yours. Let me picture it," and kneeling on the
carpet before her companion, she took a little white hand and pressed it
lovingly in her own.
"No, no; do not call me silly. There, keep that smile. That little mouth
was just made for such glowing sunbeams to play about. How I would like
to tear away those lines of sadness which so mar its exquisite
formation, and bring back the soft tints to those lips. Not that it
would enhance its perfection, but it would denote health of body and
heart. Then those eyes, so dark, deep and fathomless! I cannot look into
their depths without a feeling of purity and holiness stealing into my
soul, as though I had taken a peep into the land of spirits where there
is no sin. What, a tear? Forgive me, darling. I should have known
better. I too often pelt the door of your heart's sepulcher with the
pebbles of my thoughtless volubility. Thank you for that look of
forgiveness. Now let me depart before I sin again. But, just a moment.
Whenever I plant my tripping feet on sacred ground, bid me hush, begone.
Check me, dearest. I want to be your sunbeam, not the east wind that
blows up dark clouds; will you?"
"I will let you act and talk naturally. I like it. If at times you
discover tears, it need not frighten or silence you. They seem as
necessary to my existence as the rain to the summer flowers. Now begone;
_I_ shall go out among the zephyrs awhile that they may freshen up these
'withered petals.' Do not mention me below. Good bye," and Lillian,
kissing her hand to her companion, glided through the open door and away
out of sight.
At the time of which I write there could not be found in all Georgia a
more charming home retreat from the cares and tumults of the bustling
world than the home of the Belmont's.
"Rosedale" was what its name would seem to designate, a garden of roses.
The house was built around three sides of a hollow square in the center
of which a fountain sent up its sparkling jets above the cool twinkling
shadows of the trees which surrounded it, up into the sunlight,
catching its rainbow tints and falling back into the marble basin
beneath, with a cool trickling sound that charmed the weary and
enervated into quiet and repose, lulling the restless spirit into dreams
of future peace and rest. The open side looked towards the north, and as
far as the eye could reach the most charming landscape was extended. A
thoroughly cultivated cotton field was near by, but it wound around to
the right and was lost sight of behind the orange grove. On the left the
white rude huts of the negroes were just discernable. On--on, the
distant hills kept rising, over which the blue sky seemed to hover
lovingly, giving to the bright green fields a darker hue, and to the
little busy river below the terrace, a robe of its own soft color.
The constructor of this beautiful home had been sleeping for many years
where the fir trees nestled together and the purling river sang all day
its rippling song as if to hush to more silent repose the quiet
slumberer. The widow, however, who had never laid aside her weeds, had
well maintained her position. There was no plantation in all that region
more thrifty or prosperous than this. It was a pleasure to visit
Rosedale, particularly now, as Charles, the only son, had returned from
his European tour as reputed heir and proprietor of the beautiful
estate, and of course the spacious drawing-rooms were crowded.
One hour after Lillian had left her chamber she was sitting alone in a
quiet summer house at the foot of the terrace looking dreamily out upon
the landscape, listlessly plucking the roses which drooped about her and
scattering their bright petals on the ground at her feet. Perhaps she
imagined who would look for her there at that hour, still when the sound
of a footstep fell on her ear she started and her pale cheek flushed for
a moment; but when George St. Clair entered she smiled and extended her
hand in welcome. He took it tenderly in his own and seated himself at
her feet.
"You have carpeted the ground for me with rose leaves which these little
hands have wantonly spoiled," he said with his usual gallantry. "O,
Lillian, how cruel you are!"
"Do not George; I want to talk with you! I have spent a sleepless night
trying to summon sufficient resolution for this interview. I feel that
you deserve some share of my confidence at least, and it is sweet to
know that after all this struggling I can give it to you."
"And I shall be glad to receive it, although I have a presentiment that
it is my death doom!"
She bowed her head and her white lips touched his forehead. "I love you,
George, with the purest sisterly affection, and in my poor heart your
sorrows will ever find a sympathetic response. I feel that I shall give
you pain by what I must say, and God knows how gladly I would save you
from it if it was in my power. But bear with me; I have long loved
another! You have surmised it--_I_ now confess it! I was not yet fifteen
when I met and loved Pearl Hamilton. You remember the time I went north
to school? He was a Philadelphian by birth and a nobler, truer heart
never beat! Could you see him George you would not blame me for what I
did! I was a child--a petted, spoiled child! My wishes had never been
disputed and why should they be then? In a very few weeks I became his
wife. Do not look at me so wildly! It is _all_ true--_I am a wife!_"
"Lillian, _why_ have you deceived the world and me so long? Why did you
not tell me this three years ago when I returned from Europe? Had you
done so I would have spared you all of the torment my repeated proffers
of love must have caused; and it might have been had I known the truth
at that time less bitter for me to-day. But I will not chide you." The
young man had risen to his feet while speaking and paced to and fro the
full length of the arbor.
"Come and sit by me," she pleaded; "I have not yet finished." He obeyed.
"It was not _my_ fault, George, that you did not know all at the time,
but let me continue my narrative. It will not detain you long. I was
married, not however without the approbation of my aunt, with whom I
resided. As soon as it was over a sudden fear took possession of me. I
did not dare tell my mother. For the first time in all my life I had
acted without her approval, and now I was fearful of her displeasure. It
came at last. After much persuasion from my husband and friends I told
her all. One bright day when Pearl was absent from home my aunt sent for
me. I obeyed the summons, and there met my mother after a separation of
more than a year. Her greeting was cold, her manner stern and
commanding. It seems that she had been in the city three days, and
during that time had accumulated legal documents sufficient to prove to
_me_, at least, that as neither of us was of age our marriage was null
and void. Her words overpowered me. But I will not picture the scene
that followed. I was a _child_ again obedient to her will. We left the
city before the return of my husband, and I have never seen him since. I
have written many letters, but have received none in return. Only _once_
have I heard that he yet lived. My aunt wrote that he stood very high in
the estimation of the people and remained true to his boyish vows. That
letter was not intended for my eyes, but they saw it, and my heart
responded to his fidelity. Thus to-day you find me what I am. Now, tell
me, George, do you hate me for what I have done? I had not the power to
break away from the injunction laid upon me. My mother said that in time
I would not only regret but forget, my folly, and would thank her for
placing me in a position to marry some one equal to myself. O George,
think of these long years I have carried this aching, desolate heart. My
whole being has seemed enervated. But this fresh proffer of your love
has aroused me. I _am_ a _woman_, and there is _injustice_ in all this.
_You_ are good and noble; for this reason I have confided in you,
breathed into your ear words that were never before spoke by me."
"Thank you! But, Lillian, what proof has your aunt that _he_ remains
true to his early vows? Do you think _any_ earthly power could keep _me_
from you were you _my_ wife? And yet you tell me that you have not
received one answer to your many letters."
"Did I not also tell you that there was _injustice_ in all this? And
more--I am fully convinced that there has been and _now is_ a _criminal_
wrong being enacted of which _I_ am the subject."
"It _cannot_ be! O Lillian! henceforth I am your friend and your
brother. Command me at all times, and I am your obedient servant.
Henceforth my country only shall be my bride. I will wed her with good
faith. I will suffer, I will die for her. But you will be my sister,
Lillian. Call me _Brother_. Let that appellation, at least, fall from
those sweet lips like the refreshing dew, for I feel that my heart is
withering, and then I must go. I came to bid you farewell. New duties
are calling me, and I am glad that it is so."
"God bless you, my brother," came like low, plaintiff music to his ear.
For one moment he held her close to his heart, and gazed into the
beautiful eyes where a world of love and suffering lay hidden; then
imprinting a kiss upon her fair cheek fled from her presence. He was
gone.
For a long time Lillian sat like one in a dream. Could it be? Had the
friend of so many years really spoken the last farewell? How much she
had prized his love; his demonstrations of tenderness; and now they were
to be hers no more. How much it had cost her to sever this sparkling
chain of gold which the heart of woman ever covets, God only knows. But
the work had been accomplished at last, and the thought brought more of
relief with it than pain after all. She had pondered it so long and
shrank from its performance until the burden of her coming duty pressed
heavily upon her; but it was lifted now, and a sense of peace stole into
her mind as she realized the truth. Then there came a wave of
apprehension that suddenly dashed its murky waters over her. "What would
her mother say?" She had so long been the submissive _child_ in her
strength and power that it was a marvel _how_ she had dared to loosen
herself from them or act for once upon her own responsibility. There was
one reason why that mother had so insisted upon her wedding George St.
Clair, but the daughter had never been able to obtain it from her.
"But I could _not_--O I could not," she exclaimed, rising and standing
in the door way of the arbor as she looked away down the road where her
lover had ridden at full speed, taking with him, as she well knew, an
aching heart, but one not more wretched than her own.
Raphael made the transfiguration a subject for his pencil, but died
before it was finished, and how many of us will do the same? We begin
life with glowing tints, but the sombre colors are demanded. We lay
aside the brush as incapable of the task, and other hands interfere to
spoil its designs or destroy the first intention altogether. Lillian's
life had opened with a few glowing outlines, but a masterly hand had
changed the subject, and the canvas was yet to receive its filling up,
and God was marking the designs upon it for her; and, discovering this,
she bowed her head with reverential awe before the solemn realization,
and with a firmer and steadier step than had been hers for years, she
walked to the house and entered her own room.
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