SPRING AND LOVE.
It was late in February before the party reached home. Thurston's
business finished he also hastened back and sought out Marian. One
memorable episode must be related. Thurston had met Marian not many
yards down the lonely forest foot-path, leading from the village school
to Old Fields one evening.
After a walk of about a quarter of a mile through the bushes they
descended by the natural staircase of moss-covered rocks, and sat down
together upon a bed of violets at its foot.
Before them, through the canopy of over-arching trees, was seen, like a
picture in its frame of foliage, a fine view of the open country and the
bay now bathed in purple haze of evening.
But the fairest prospect that ever opened had no more attraction for
Thurston than if it had been a view of chimney tops from a back attic
window. He passed his right hand around Marian's shoulders, and drew her
closer to his side, and with the other hand began to untie her bonnet
strings.
"Lay off this little bonnet. Let me see your beauteous head uncovered.
There!" he said, putting it aside, and smoothing her bright locks. "Oh,
Marian! my love! my queen! when I see only the top of your head, I think
your rippling, sunny tresses your chief beauty; but soon my eyes fall to
the blooming cheek--there never was such a cheek--so vivid, yet so
delicate, so glowing, yet so cool and fresh--like the damask rose bathed
in morning dew--so when I gaze on it I think the blushing cheek your
sweetest charm--ah! but near by breathe the rich, ripe lips, fragrant as
nectarines; and which I should swear to be the very buds of love, were
not my gaze caught up to meet your eyes--stars!--and then I know that I
have found the very soul of beauty! Oh! priceless pearl! By what rare
fortune was it that I ever found you in these Maryland woods? Love!
Angel! Marian! for that means all!" he exclaimed, in a sort of ecstasy,
straining her to his side.
And Marian dropped her blushing face upon his shoulder--she was blushing
not from bashful love alone--with it mingled a feeling of shame, regret,
and mistrust, because he praised so much her form and face; because he
seemed to love her only for her superficial good looks. She would have
spoken if she could have done so; she would have told what was on her
heart as earnest as a prayer by saying:
"Oh, do not think so much of this perishable, outward beauty; accident
may ruin it, sickness may injure it, time will certainly impair it. Do
not love me for that which I have no power over, and which may be taken
from me at any time--which I shall be sure to lose at last--love me for
something better and more lasting than that. I have a heart in this
bosom worth all the rest, a heart that in itself is an inner world--a
kingdom worthy of your rule--a heart that neither time, fortune, nor
casualty can ever change--a heart that loves you now in your strong and
beautiful youth, and will love you when you are old and gray, and when
you are one of the redeemed of heaven. Love me for this heart."
But to have saved her own soul or his, Marian could not then have spoken
those words.
So he continued to caress her--every moment growing more and more
enchanted with her loveliness. There was more of passion than affection
in his manner, and Marian felt and regretted this, though her feeling
was not a very clearly defined one--it was rather an instinct than a
thought, and it was latent, and quite subservient to her love for him.
"Love! angel! how enchanting you are," he exclaimed, catching her in his
arms and pressing kisses on her cheek and lips and neck.
Glowing with color, Marian strove to release herself. "Let me go--let us
leave this place, dear Thurston," she pleaded, attempting to rise.
"Why? Why are you in such a hurry? Why do you wish to leave me?" he
asked, without releasing his hold.
"It is late! Dear Thurston, it is late," she said, in vague alarm.
"That does not matter--I am with you."
"They will be anxious about me, pray let us go! They will be so
anxious!" she said, with increasing distress, trying to get away.
"Thurston! Thurston! You distress me beyond measure," she exclaimed in
great trouble.
But he stopped her breath with kisses.
Marian suddenly ceased to struggle, and by a strong effort of will she
became perfectly calm. And looking in his eyes, with her clear, steady
gaze, she said:
"Thurston, I have ceased to strive. But if you are a man of honor, you
will release me."
His arms dropped from around her as if he had been struck dead.
Glad to be free, Marian arose to depart. Thurston sat still--his fine
countenance overclouded with mortification and anger. Marian hesitated;
she knew not how to proceed. He did not offer to rise and attend her. At
length she spoke.
"Will you see me safely through the woods, Thurston?"
He did not answer.
"Thurston, it is nearly dark--there are several runaway negroes in the
forest now, and the road will not be safe for me."
"Good-night, then," she said.
"Good-night, Marian."
She turned away and ascended the steps with her heart filled nearly to
bursting with grief, indignation and fear. That he should let her take
that long, dark, dangerous walk alone! it was incredible! she could
scarcely realize it, or believe it! Her unusually excited feelings lent
wings to her feet, and she walked swiftly for about a quarter of a mile,
and then was forced to pause and take breath. And then every feeling of
indignation and fear was lost in that of sorrow, that she had wounded
his feelings, and left him in anger. And Marian dropped her face into
her open hands and wept. A step breaking through the brushwood made her
start and tremble. She raised her head with the attitude of one prepared
for a spring and flight. It was so dark she could scarcely see her hands
before her, but as the step approached, a voice said:
"Fear nothing, Marian, I have not lost sight of you since you left me,"
and Thurston came up to her side.
With a glad smile of surprise Marian turned to greet him, holding out
her hand, expecting him to draw it through his arm and lead her on. But
no, he would not touch her hand. Lifting his hat slightly, he said:
"Go forward if you please to do so, Marian. I attend you."
Marian went on, and he followed closely. They proceeded in silence for
some time. Now that she knew that he had not left her a moment alone in
the woods, she felt more deeply grieved at having so mortified and
offended him. At last she spoke:
"Pray, do not be angry with me, dear Thurston."
"I am not angry that I know of, fair one; and you do me too much honor
to care about my mood. Understand me once for all. I am not a Dr.
Grimshaw, in any phase of that gentleman's character. I am neither the
tyrant who will persecute you to exact your attention, nor yet the slave
who will follow and coax and whine and wheedle for your favor. In either
character I should despise myself too much," he answered, coolly.
"Thurston, you are deeply displeased, or you would not speak so, and I
am very, very sorry," said Marian in a tremulous voice.
"Do not distress yourself about me, fair saint! I shall trouble you no
more after this evening!"
What did he mean? What could Thurston mean? Trouble her no more after
this evening! She did not understand the words, but they went through
her bosom like a sword. She did not reply--she could not. She wished to
say:
"Oh, Thurston, if you could read my heart--how singly it is devoted to
you--how its thoughts by day, and dreams by night are filled with
histories and images of what I would be, and do or suffer for you--of
how faithfully I mean to love and serve you in all our coming years--you
would not mistake me, and get angry, because you would know my heart."
But these words Marian could not have uttered had her life depended on
it.
"Go on, Marian, the moor is no safer than the forest; I shall attend you
across it."
And they went on until the light from Old Field Cottage was visible.
Then Marian said:
"You had better leave me now. They are sitting up and watching for me."
"No! go on, the night is very dark. I must see you to the gate."
They walked rapidly, and just as they approached the house Marian saw a
little figure wandering about on the moor, and which suddenly sprang
toward her with an articulate cry of joy! It was Miriam, who threw
herself upon Marian with such earnestness of welcome that she did not
notice Thurston, who now raised his hat slightly from his head, with a
slight nod, and walked rapidly away.
"Here she is, mother! Oh! here she is!" cried Miriam, pulling at
Marian's dress and drawing her in the house.
"Oh! Marian, how anxious you have made us! Where have you been?" asked
Edith, in a tone half of love, half of vexation.
"I have been detained," said Marian, in a low voice.
The cottage room was very inviting. The evening was just chilly enough
to make the bright little wood fire agreeable. On the clean hearth
before it sat the tea-pot and a covered plate of toast waiting for
Marian. And old Jenny got up and sat out a little stand, covered it with
a white napkin, and put the tea and toast, with the addition of a piece
of cold chicken and a saucer of preserves, upon it. And Marian laid off
her straw bonnet and muslin scarf and sat down and tried to eat, for
affectionate eyes had already noticed the trouble of her countenance,
and were watching her now with anxiety.
"You do not seem to have an appetite, dear; what is the matter?" asked
Edith.
"I am not very well," said Marian, rising and leaving the table, and
refraining with difficulty from bursting into tears.
"It's dat ar cussed infunnelly party at Lockemup--last Toosday!" said
Jenny, as she cleared away the tea service--"a-screwin' up tight in
cusseds an' ball-dresses! an' a-dancing all night till broad daylight!
'sides heavin' of ever so much unwholesome 'fectionery trash down her
t'roat--de constitution ob de United States hisself couldn't stan' sich!
much less a delicy young gall! I 'vises ov you, honey, to go to bed."
"Indeed, Marian, it was too much for you to lose your rest all night,
and then have to get up early to go to school. You should have had a
good sleep this morning. And then to be detained so late this evening.
Did you have to keep any of the girls in, or was it a visit from the
trustees that detained you?"
"Neither," said Marian, nervously, "but I think I must take Jenny's
advice and go to bed."