AUTUMNAL LEAVES.
AUTUMNAL LEAVES:
TALES AND SKETCHES
IN
PROSE AND RHYME.
BY
L. MARIA CHILD.
I speak, as in the days of youth,
In simple words some earnest truth.
NEW YORK:
C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 554 BROADWAY.
BOSTON:--53 DEVONSHIRE STREET.
1857.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
BY C. S. FRANCIS & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.
Several of the articles contained in this volume have appeared in
various periodicals ten or twelve years ago. Others have been recently
written, during the hours that could be spared from daily duties.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE EGLANTINE, 9
A SERENADE, 46
THE JURYMAN, 47
THE FAIRY FRIEND, 65
WERGELAND, THE POET, 72
THE EMIGRANT BOY, 79
HOME AND POLITICS, 96
TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS, 119
THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER, 121
THE RIVAL MECHANICIANS, 143
A SONG, 165
UTOUCH AND TOUCHU, 166
THE BROTHER AND SISTER, 181
THE STREAM OF LIFE, 200
THE MAN THAT KILLED HIS NEIGHBOURS, 203
INTELLIGENCE OF ANIMALS, 221
THE WORLD THAT I AM PASSING THROUGH, 231
JAN AND ZAIDA, 233
TO THE NASTURTIUM, 268
THE ANCIENT CLAIRVOYANT, 269
SPIRIT AND MATTER, 291
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS, 302
I WANT TO GO HOME, 364
THE EGLANTINE,
A simple Love Story,
FOUNDED ON A ROMANTIC INCIDENT, WHICH OCCURRED IN THE FAR WEST, ABOUT
TEN YEARS AGO.
“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
And her modest answer, and graceful air,
Show her wise and good, as she is fair.
Would she were mine; and I to-day
A simple harvester of hay;
With low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”
Then he thought of his sister, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
J. G. WHITTIER.
“What a remarkably pretty girl Mrs. Barton has for a nursery maid,” said
Mrs. Vernon to her daughter.
“Yes, mamma; and it seems quite useless for a servant to be so handsome.
What good will it do _her_?” She glanced at the mirror, as she spoke,
and seemed less satisfied than usual with her own pretty face. She was
thinking to herself, “If I had as much beauty as _she_ has, I shouldn’t
despair of winning a duke.”
A similar idea flashed across Mrs. Vernon’s mind, as she noticed the
involuntary appeal to the mirror. Therefore, she sighed as she answered,
“Instead of doing her good, it will doubtless prove a misfortune. Some
dissipated lord will take a fancy to her; but he will soon become weary
of her, and will marry her to the first good-natured clown, who can be
hired to take her.”
“Very likely,” replied Miss Julia; “and after living with a nobleman,
she can never be happy with a person of her own condition.” The prospect
of such a future in reserve for the rustic beauty seemed by no means
painful to the aristocratic young lady. Indeed, one might conjecture,
from her manner, that she regarded it as no more than a suitable
punishment for presuming to be handsomer than her superiors in rank.
A flush passed over the countenance of her brother Edward, who sat
reading at the opposite window; but the ladies, busy with their
embroidery and netting, did not observe it. The lower extremity of their
grounds was separated from Mrs. Barton’s merely by a hedge of hawthorns.
A few weeks previous, as he was walking there, his attention had been
attracted by joyful exclamations from their neighbour’s children, over a
lupine that began to show its valves above the ground. He turned
involuntarily, and when he saw the young girl who accompanied them, he
felt a little glow of pleasant surprise curl around his heart, as if
some entirely new and very beautiful wild flower had unexpectedly
appeared before him. That part of the garden became his favourite place
of resort; and if a day passed without his obtaining a glimpse of the
lovely stranger, he was conscious of an undefined feeling of
disappointment. One day, when the children were playing near by, their
India-rubber ball bounced over into Mrs. Vernon’s grounds. When he saw
them searching for it among the hawthorns, he reached across the hedge
and presented it to their attendant. He raised his hat and bowed, as he
did so; and she blushed as she took it from his hand. After this
accidental introduction, he never passed her without a similar
salutation; and she always coloured at a mark of courtesy so unusual
from a gentleman to a person in her humble condition. The degree of
interest she had excited in his mind rendered it somewhat painful to
hear his mother’s careless prophecy of her future destiny.
A few days afterward, he was walking with his sister, when Mrs. Barton’s
maid passed with the children. Miss Julia graciously accosted the little
ones, but ignored the presence of their attendant. Seeing her brother
make his usual sign of deferential politeness, she exclaimed, “What a
strange person you are, Edward! One would suppose you were passing a
duchess. I dare say you would do just the same if cousin Alfred were
with us.”
“Certainly I should,” he replied. “I am accustomed to regulate my
actions by my own convictions, not by those of another person. You know
I believe in such a thing as _natural_ nobility.”
“And if a servant happens to have a pretty face, you consider her a born
duchess, I suppose,” said Julia.
“Such kind of beauty as that we have just passed, where the pliant limbs
move with unconscious dignity, and harmonized features are illuminated
by a moral grace, that emanates from the soul, _does_ seem to me to have
received from Nature herself an unmistakeable patent of nobility.”
“So you _know_ this person?” inquired his sister.
He replied, “I have merely spoken to her on the occasion of returning a
ball, that one of the children tossed over into our grounds. But
casually as I have seen her, her countenance and manners impress me with
the respect that _you_ feel for high birth.”
“It’s a pity you were not born in the back-woods of America,” retorted
his sister, pettishly.
“I sometimes think so myself,” he quietly replied. “But let us gather
some of these wild flowers, Julia, instead of disputing about
conventional distinctions, concerning which you and I can never agree.”
His sister coldly accepted the flowers he offered. Her temper was
clouded by the incident of the morning. It vexed her that Edward had
never said, or implied, so much concerning _her_ style of beauty; and
she could not forgive the tendencies of mind which spoiled him for the
part she wished him to perform in the world, as a means of increasing
his own importance, and thereby advancing her interests. She had the
misfortune to belong to an English family extensively connected with the
rich and aristocratic, without being themselves largely endowed with
wealth. Cousin Alfred, the son of her father’s older brother, was heir
to a title; and consequently she measured every thing by his standard.
The income of the family was more than sufficient for comfort and
gentility; but the unfortunate tendency to assume the habits of others
as their standard rendered what might have been a source of enjoyment a
cause of discontent.
Their life was a constant struggle to keep up appearances beyond their
means. All natural thoughts and feelings were kept in perpetual harness;
drilled to walk blindfolded the prescribed round of conventional forms,
like a horse in a bark-mill; with this exception, that _their_ routine
spoiled the free paces of the horse, without grinding any bark. Edward’s
liberal soul had early rebelled against this system. He had experienced
a vague consciousness of walking in fetters ever since he was reproved
for bringing home a favourite school-mate to pass the vacation with him,
when he was twelve years old. He could not _then_ be made to understand
why a manly, intelligent, large-hearted boy, who was a tradesman’s son,
was less noble than young Lord Smallsoul, cousin Alfred’s school-friend;
and within the last few weeks, circumstances had excited his thoughts
to unusual activity concerning natural and artificial distinctions. As
he walked in the garden, book in hand, he never failed to see the
beautiful nursery-maid, if she were anywhere within sight; and she
always perceived _him_. In her eyes, _he_ was like a bright, far-off
star; while he was refreshed by a vision of _her_, as he was by the
beauty of an opening flower. Distinction of rank was such a fixed fact
in the society around them, that the star and the flower dreamed of
union as much as they did. But Cupid, who is the earliest republican on
record, willed that things should not remain in that state. A bunch of
fragrant violets were offered with a smile and received with a blush;
and in the blush and the smile an arrow lay concealed. Then volumes of
poems were loaned with passages marked; and every word of those passages
were stereotyped on the heart of the reader. For a long time, he was
ignorant of her name; but hearing the children call her Sibella, he
inquired her other name, and they told him it was Flower. He thought it
an exceedingly poetic and appropriate name; as most young men of twenty
would have thought, under similar circumstances. He noticed the
sequestered lanes where she best loved to rove, when sent out with the
children for exercise; and those lanes became his own favourite places
of resort. Wild flowers furnished a graceful and harmless topic of
conversation; yet Love made even those simple things his messengers.
Patrician Edward offered the rustic Sibella an Eglantine, saying, “This
has a peculiar charm for me, above all flowers. It is so fragrant and
delicately tinted; so gracefully untrained, and so modest in its
pretensions. It always seems to me like a beautiful young maiden,
without artificial culture, but naturally refined and poetic. The first
time I saw you, I thought of a flowering Eglantine; and I have never
since looked at the shrub, without being reminded of you.” She listened,
half abashed and half delighted. She never saw the flower again without
thinking of _him_.
The next day after this little adventure, she received a copy of Moore’s
Melodies, with her name elegantly written therein. The songs, all
sparkling with fancy and warm with love, were well suited to her sixteen
years, and to that critical period in her heart’s experience. She saw in
them a reflection of her own young soul dreamily floating in a
fairy-boat over moon-lighted waters. The mystery attending the gift
increased its charm. The postman left it at the door, and no one knew
whence it came. Within the same envelope was a pressed blossom of the
Eglantine, placed in a sheet of Parisian letter-paper, gracefully
ornamented with a coloured arabesque of Eglantines and German
Forget-me-nots. On it the following verses were inscribed:--
TO SIBELLA FLOWER.
There is a form more light and fair,
Than human tongue can tell,
It seems a spirit of the air.
She is a flower _si belle_!
The lovely cheek more faintly flushed
Than ocean’s rosy shell,
Is like a new-found pearl that blushed,
She is a flower _si belle_!
Her glossy hair in simple braid,
With softly curving swell,
Might well have crowned a Grecian maid.
She is a flower _si belle_!
Her serious and dove-like eyes
Of gentle thoughts do tell;
Serene as summer ev’ning skies.
She is a flower _si belle_!
Her graceful mouth was outlined free
By Cupid’s magic spell,
A bow for his sure archery.
She is a flower _si belle_!
And thence soft silv’ry tones do flow,
Like rills along the dell,
Making sweet music as they go.
She is a flower _si belle_!
Fairer still is the modest mind,
Pure as a crystal well,
In mountain solitude enshrined.
She is a flower _si belle_!
A note at the bottom of the verses explained that the French word _si
belle_ meant _so beautiful_. The poetry was that of a young man of
twenty; but a simple maiden of sixteen, who was herself the subject of
the lines, saw more beauty in them, than a critic could find in the best
inspirations of Shakespeare or Milton. And then to think that a
gentleman, who understood _French_, should write verses to _her_! It was
wonderful! She would as soon have dreamed of wearing the crown of
England. The next time she met Edward Vernon, her cheeks were flushed
_more_ deeply than “ocean’s rosy shell.” But she never alluded to the
book or the verses; for she said to herself, “Perhaps he did’nt send
them; and then I should feel so ashamed of _supposing_ he did!” The
secret was half betrayed on his part; whether intentionally or
unintentionally, she did not know. He began by calling her Miss Flower;
then he called her Sibella; but ever after the reception of the verses,
he said Sibelle.
They were so reserved toward each other, and Mrs. Barton’s children were
apparently so much the objects of his attention, during their rambles,
that their dreamy romance might have gone on uninterrupted for months
longer, had not a human foot stepped within their fairy circle. Lord
Smallsoul, as he rode abroad one day, was attracted by “the flower _si
belle_.” As his grosser nature and more selfish habits were uncurbed by
the respectful diffidence, which restrained Edward’s love, he became
bold and importunate in his attentions; as if he took it for granted
that any rural beauty could be purchased with a nobleman’s gold. The
poor girl could not stir out of doors, without being liable to his
unwelcome intrusion; the more unwelcome because the presence of the
false lover expelled the true one. Edward kept carefully aloof, watching
the proceedings of the profligate nobleman with jealous indignation. He
painfully felt that he had no right to assume guardianship over the
young girl, and that any attempt to do so would bring him into collision
with her persecutor; likely to end in publicity by no means favourable
to her reputation. The rural belle was inexperienced in the world’s
ways, but she had been trained by a prudent mother, and warned against
the very dangers that now beset her path. Therefore, with many blushes,
she begged Mrs. Barton to excuse her from walking out with the children;
confessing that Lord Smallsoul sought every opportunity of urging her to
go and live with him in Italy, though she never would accept one of the
many rich presents he was always offering her. Mrs. Barton warmly
commended her, and promised protection. After some conversation, she
said, “The children tell me that Mr. Vernon has often joined you in
your walks. Did _he_ ever say he was in love with you?” Sibella promptly
replied, “Never. He is always very respectful.” “And he has never made
you any presents, has he?” inquired the lady. The maiden lowered her
eyes and blushed deeply. She had been trained to a strict observance of
the truth; but she did not know certainly who sent Moore’s Melodies; and
heart and conscience both pleaded with her not to say any thing that
might involve her friend in blame. After a moment’s hesitation, she
answered, evasively, “He has sometimes offered me flowers, madam, when
he was gathering them for the children; and I thought it no harm to take
them.” The book of poems, and the wonderful verses framed in flowery
arabesques, remained a secret between herself and him who sent them. But
Mrs. Barton noticed the sudden blush, and the involuntary hesitation;
and she resolved to elicit some information from the children, in a
manner not likely to excite their curiosity.
Lord Smallsoul, who from infancy had been an object of excessive
indulgence, was not to be easily baffled in his selfish plans. Night and
day, he, or his confidential servant, was prowling about Mrs. Barton’s
grounds. His assiduities became a positive nuisance, and excited much
gossip in the neighbourhood. Miss Julia Vernon took occasion to say to
Mrs. Barton, “It is really surprising his lordship should make himself
so ridiculous, instead of bestowing his attentions upon beautiful
ladies whose rank in life is nearer to his own. He knows, however, that
_ladies_ would scorn to accept such homage as he bestows upon your
servant; and I suppose he is not yet ready to enter into matrimonial
bonds.”
Mrs. Barton thought to herself that the dissolute nobleman would receive
a very prompt and gracious answer, if he invited Miss Julia to enter
into such bonds. She, however, suppressed the smile that was rising to
her lips, and said, “I don’t wonder at his being fascinated by Sibella;
for she is gifted with extraordinary beauty. I am truly thankful, on her
own account, and for the sake of her worthy parents, that she is
discreet as she is lovely. I confess, I should myself rejoice in such a
daughter.”
There was a slightly contemptuous motion in the muscles of Miss Vernon’s
mouth, as she replied, “You appear to think her a paragon. The girl is
pretty enough; too pretty for her own good, since she was born to be a
servant. But I cannot imagine what attractions she can have for a
gentleman, who is accustomed to the distinguished air of ladies of
rank.”
“Some people prefer the Eglantine to the Garden Rose,” replied Mrs.
Barton. “Your _brother_ is accustomed to ladies of rank; but I imagine
he appreciates Sibella’s beauty more highly than you do.”
“What reason have you for thinking so?” quickly inquired Miss Julia.
Half mischievously, and altogether imprudently, Mrs. Barton replied,
“The children heard him tell her that she was like an Eglantine, which,
of all flowers was his favourite; and they say he always wore an
Eglantine in his vest, as long as there was one to be found.”
Up rose Miss Vernon, hastily, and with a haughty toss of the head, said
emphatically, “I thank you _very_ much for having told me this. Good
morning, madam.”
The amiable neighbour, foreseeing a storm, immediately repented of what
she had said; but it was impossible to recall it. She looked out of the
window, and saw that Miss Vernon was excited to such a degree as to make
her forget the patrician languor, which usually characterized her
movements. Obeying an impulse, for once in her life, she walked rapidly
across the garden to the paternal mansion. As if a case of life and
death were impending, she startled her mother with this abrupt
annunciation: “Do go directly to cousin Alfred, and tell him he _must_
devise some means to remove Edward from this neighbourhood, forthwith.
You know, he has been promising, for some time past, to secure a
suitable situation for him; and unless you see to having it done
immediately, you may prepare yourself to have your son disgrace the
whole family by marrying a servant.” She then repeated what she had
just heard, and added: “You know, mother, that Edward never _could_ be
induced to pay so much regard to the distinctions of rank, as he ought
to do. It would be just like him to go off to Gretna Green with a
servant girl, if he happened to take it into his foolish head that she
was a paragon of beauty and virtue.”
Great was the consternation in all branches of the Vernon family; and
their alarm was not a little increased when Edward frankly declared that
it would be easy to procure a suitable education for Sibella, and then
she would be a desirable companion for any gentleman in the land. How
his father glowered at him, how his mother wept, and what glances his
sister hurled from her haughty eyes, need not be told. He retreated to
his own apartment, and for several days remained there most of the time,
revolving plans for the future; some of them of the most romantic kind.
He longed for a secret interview with Sibella, to avow his love, promise
eternal constancy, and obtain from her a similar pledge in return. But
his nice sense of honour restrained him from taking any step that might
cast a shadow upon her. He made several attempts to see her openly, but
he was closely watched, and she never appeared; for Mrs. Barton informed
her that the family had taken offence at the attentions he paid her.
The anxious conferences in Edward’s family ended with an announcement
from his father that he must prepare to start for Italy the next week,
as traveling companion for a young nobleman, about to make the tour of
Europe.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Vernon and her daughter vented some of their
mortification and vexation upon Mrs. Barton; blaming her for keeping
such a handsome servant, to make trouble in gentlemen’s families. That
lady, becoming more and more uneasy at the state of things, deemed it
prudent to write a warning letter to Sibella’s parents; and the good
mother came to her child immediately. She found her darling in the
depths of girlish misery; alleviated, however, by the happy
consciousness that she had nothing to conceal. Weeping on the maternal
bosom, she told all her simple story; not even reserving the secret of
the book and the verses. But when her mother said they ought to be
returned to Mr. Vernon, she remonstrated warmly. “Oh no, mother, don’t
ask me to do _that_! If you do, I shall be sorry I told you. I don’t
_know_ that he sent them. He never _said_ so. The Eglantine made me
_think_ that he did; but I am afraid I should seem to him like a bold,
vain girl, if he _knew_ that I thought so.” Her mother, being assured
that no presents had been offered, and love never spoken of, yielded to
her argument. She was allowed to retain the precious volume, and the
wonderful verses, which were hidden away as carefully as a miser’s
treasures.
Mr. Vernon, the father, had a private conversation with Mrs. Flower,
the morning after her arrival. He assumed so proud a tone, that he
roused a corresponding degree of pride in the worthy woman, who curtly
assured him that her daughter would find no difficulty in forming a good
connection, and would never be permitted to enter any family that
objected to her. The gentleman thanked her, with cold politeness, and
she parted from him with a very short courtesy. That evening a note came
for Miss Sibella Flower. Mrs. Barton placed it in the mother’s hand, who
opened it and read:
“DEAR SIBELLE,
“Forgive me for venturing to call you so. I am compelled to depart
for Italy to-morrow; and that must be my excuse. I have reflected
much upon the subject, and young as I am, I feel that it is my duty
not to refuse the eligible situation my relatives have procured for
me. It has given me great pain to come to this conclusion; but I
console myself with the reflection that some day or other, I shall
be free to follow my own inclinations. I can never forget you,
never cease to love you; and I cannot part without saying farewell,
and conjuring you to cherish the memory of the blissful moments we
have passed together. Do ask Mrs. Barton to allow me an hour’s
interview with you this evening. She and your mother can both be
present, if they think proper. They will see by this request that
my views are honourable, and my professions sincere.
“Yours, with undying affection,
“E. V.”
Mrs. Flower promptly decided to see the young gentleman herself. He was
accordingly sent for, and came full of love and hope. But Sibella, who
was kept in ignorance of the note, was requested not to intrude upon
their conference; therefore, he saw the mother only. In answer to all
his vehement protestations and earnest entreaties, she answered,
“Sibella is a mere child; and it is my duty to guard her inexperience.
Next to seeing her deceived by false professions, I have always dreaded
her marrying into a proud family, who would look down upon her.”
“I will go to America, and make a position for myself, independent of my
family, before I ask her to share my destiny,” replied the enthusiastic
lover.
“I thank you, Mr. Vernon. You have behaved nobly toward my child; and my
heart blesses you for it. But I had a sister, who married above her
rank, and I cannot forget the consequences. They were very young when
they were married, and never were two young creatures so much in love.
She was as good as she was handsome; but his family treated her as if
she was’nt worthy to black their shoes; and they had such an influence
upon him, that he at last repented of the step he had taken. She felt
it, and it made her very miserable. You are young, sir; too young to be
certain that your mind won’t change.”
“I know perfectly well that my mind can never change,” he replied
eagerly. “This is not such a boyish whim as you seem to suppose. It is a
deep, abiding feeling. It is _impossible_ that I can ever change.”
The mother quietly replied, “My sister’s husband said the same; and yet
he did change.”
Edward Vernon internally cursed that sister’s heartless husband; but he
contented himself with saying; “Such love as _his_ must have been very
different from the feelings that inspire _me_.”
His intreaties were unavailing to procure an interview with Sibella. The
prudent mother concealed the fact that he had awakened an interest in
her daughter’s heart. To all his arguments she would only shake her head
and reply, “You are too young to know your own mind, Mr. Vernon.”
Too _young_! How cold and contemptuous that sounded! He was not in a
state of mind to appreciate the foresight and kindness, which strove to
shield him from his own rashness. She seemed to him as proud and
hard-hearted as his father; and perhaps pride did help her prudence a
little. Yet when he was gone away, the good woman sat down and cried;
she sympathized so heartily with the trouble of those young hearts.
Sibella sobbed herself to sleep that night, though unconscious that
Edward intended to leave England. He watched the window of her chamber
till the light of her lamp went out in darkness. “That star will shine
for me no more!” he said. He returned slowly to his own room, looked out
upon the hawthorn-hedge for a long time, then laid himself down to weep,
and dream of green lanes, fragrant with the Eglantine.
The next morning, Mrs. Flower requested her daughter to prepare for
their return home, since there was no other way of relieving Mrs. Barton
from the perpetual intrusion of the shameless nobleman, and his
troublesome servant. Gentle as Sibella was, she experienced a feeling of
hatred toward Lord Smallsoul, who, like an odious beast, had rushed into
her paradise, trampling its flowers. She did not dispute her mother’s
decision, for she felt that it was judicious; but _she_ also stood at
the window a long time, looking out upon the hawthorn-hedge, associated
with so many pleasant memories. Her eyes were moist when she turned and
said, “Mother, before we go away, I should like to bid good-bye to some
of the old places, where I have walked with--with--the children. You can
go with me, if you are afraid of my meeting Mr. Vernon.”
Sadly and sympathizingly, her mother answered, “You cannot meet Mr.
Vernon, my child; for he has gone to Italy.”
“Gone!” she exclaimed; and the sudden paleness and the thrilling tone
cut her mother’s heart. She soothed her tenderly, and, after a while,
Sibella raised her head, with an effort to assume maidenly pride, and
said, “He never _told_ me he loved me. I sometimes _thought_ he did. But
it was very foolish of me. If he cared for me, he would have said
good-bye. I will think no more about it.”
The mother was strongly tempted to tell how ardently and how honourably
he loved. But she thought to herself, “It would only serve to keep alive
hopes destined to end in disappointment.” So she put strong constraint
on her feminine sympathies, and remained silent. They went forth into
the green lanes bright with sunshine, but gloomy to eyes that saw them
through a veil of tears. When Sibella came to the bush from which Edward
had broken the first Eglantine he offered her, she gazed at it
mournfully, and throwing herself on the bosom of her best earthly
friend, sobbed out, “Oh mother, _mother_! I have been so _happy_ here!”
“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don’t know how sorry I am for
you. But these feelings will pass away with time. You are very young;
and life is all before you.”
The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness in her eyes, and
answered, “Yes, mother, I _am_ young; but life is all _behind_ me.”
* * * * *
There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was in Sibella’s life. That
brief dream of the past would not unite itself with the actual present.
She could form no bridge between them. It remained by itself; like an
island warm with sunshine, and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of
cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed, all things around her
seemed changed. The young men, especially, appeared like a different
race of beings, since she had learned to compare them with that poetic
youth, who gazed so reverently at the evening star, and loved the
wild-flowers as if they were living things. He had kindled her
imagination, as well as her heart. She perceived a _soul_ in Nature, of
which she had been unconscious till _he_ revealed it. Ah, how lonely she
was now! In all the wide world there was not one mortal who could
understand what that simple country girl had found, or what she had
lost. She herself did not comprehend it. She only had an uneasy sense of
always seeking for something she could never find. She lived among her
former associates like one who has returned from an excursion into
fairy-land, finding the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But
employments are Amaranths in the garden of life. They live through all
storms, and survive all changes of the seasons. Her duties were numerous
and conscientiously performed; and through this pathway of necessity,
apparently so rugged, she soon arrived at a state of cheerful serenity.
In a few months, her parents were induced to join a band of emigrants
coming to America; and the novelty of change proved beneficial to her.
That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten, but it smiled
upon her farther in the distance. There was a joyful palpitation at her
heart, when she found Eglantines growing wild in America, under the name
of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened the verses which had seemed to her “_si
belle!_” The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but memory was
redolent of its fragrance. She was never told that Edward Vernon had
written two letters to her, after he left England; and she had almost
persuaded herself that his looks and tones were not so significant as
they had seemed. She had no materials to form a definite hope; but it
became the leading object of her life so to improve herself, that he
would have no cause to be ashamed of her, if he ever should happen to
come to America. In the accomplishment of this project, she was
continually stimulated by the example of American girls, who obtained
the means of education by their own manual industry, and ended by
becoming teachers of the highest class. Her parents were delighted with
her diligence and perseverance, and did what they could to aid her;
never suspecting that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent
feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she worked onwards and
upwards, with hands and mind, and soon found pleasure in the development
itself.
Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted admirers of various
grades. Her parents hoped she would give the preference to a merchant of
good character, who was in very prosperous circumstances. She was aware
that such a marriage would be a great advantage to them; and she loved
them so much, that she wished her beauty could be the means of bringing
them prosperity. She tried to love the worthy merchant; but her efforts
were unavailing. She was always thinking to herself, “He never writes
poetry to me, and he never tells me about the stars. Edward used to
gather wild-flowers for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths of
Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers, tied into pyramids on
wires. The poor things look _so_ uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if
I consent to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more like Mr.
Vernon! I should _like_ to oblige my good father and mother.” The
soliloquy ended with humming to herself:
“There’s nothing half so sweet in life
As Love’s young dream.”
When the time came for a definite answer to the merchant, she told her
parents she had rather keep school than marry. They looked at each other
and sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the memory of her
heart.
The prospect of owning a farm, combined with an eligible offer for
Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward attracted them to the far West. The
grandeur and freedom of Nature in that new region, the mighty forests,
the limitless prairies, the luxuriant vegetation, produced a sudden
expansion in that youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens and
carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination experienced a new birth
in poetry, as the heart experiences religion. All that she had
previously known of beauty seemed tame and cold compared with the wild
charm of that improvised scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed
with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring, but it had no
sympathy with the human soul, which longed for more responsive
companionship, more intimate communion. The maiden needed a friend, into
whose soul the calm sunset of the prairies would infuse the same holy
light that penetrated her own. In such moods, the looks and tones of
Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness. At times, she longed
inexpressibly to know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences of
the poor country girl, whom his influence had led into the regions she
never dreamed of before. Nature looked at her with the same tranquil
smile, and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties of life left
but few hours for such reveries; otherwise, the abrupt termination of
her long dream might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden wakening of
a somnambulist. A newly-arrived English emigrant visited her father’s
farm. He came from Mrs. Barton’s neighbourhood, and in the course of
conversation chanced to mention that Mr. Vernon’s son and daughter were
both married. Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the strength
of the hope she cherished. She veiled her disappointment from the
observation of others; and her mother had the good sense to forbear
saying, “I told you so.” No conversation passed between them on the
subject; but when Sibella retired to her sleeping apartment, she gazed
out on the moonlighted solitude of the prairie for a long time, and
thought the expression of the scene never seemed so sad. She said to
herself, “My mother told me truly. That beautiful experience was indeed
a dream of early youth; and _only_ a dream.”
She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago the next day, to
attend to her school. In another department of the school, was a teacher
from New England, a farmer’s son, who had worked with his hands in the
summer, and studied diligently in the winter, till he had become a
scholar of more than common attainments. He taught school during the
week, and occasionally preached on Sunday, not because he was too
indolent to perform manual labour, or because he considered it
ungenteel. He was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for
knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and intellectual teaching,
for the simple reason that God had formed him for it. He loved the
occupation, and was therefore eminently successful in it. This young man
had for some time been in love with Sibella Flower, without obtaining
any signs of encouragement from her. But there is much truth in the old
adage about the facility of catching a heart at the rebound. He never
wrote poetry, or spoke eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his
busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history, science, and
ethics. But though he was unlike Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and
wise; and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly, Sibella became
aware that his society furnished pleasant companionship for heart and
mind. Their intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married.
Being desirous to purchase land and build a house, they continued to
earn money by teaching. The desired home, with its various belongings,
seemed likely to be soon completed, without great expense; for William
Wood had all the capabilities of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and
plane them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and mend his own
shoes and saddles, during the intervals of preparing lectures on
chemistry and astronomy. In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps
no combination of circumstances more favourable to happiness, than the
taste to plan a beautiful home, practical skill to embody the graceful
ideas, and the necessity of doing it with one’s own hands. Those who
have homes prepared for them by hired architects, gardeners, and
upholsterers, cannot _begin_ to imagine the pleasure of making a nest
for one’s self. William was always planning bridges, arbours, and
fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub, or vine, without
marking it to be removed to the vicinity of their cabin. She told him
all about her early love-dream, and said she should always cherish a
grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved such a powerful agent
to wake up the dormant energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now,
dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all, that is no great
change for an Eglantine.” He smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic
as she was. He _was_ poetic in his deeds. His young wife often found a
bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her pillow, when she woke, or in her
plate, when they seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made an
arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on horseback to visit
their future homestead. It was shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine
bush was placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour with the
sweet breath of its foliage. The first time Sibella saw it, she looked
at him archly, and said, “So you are not jealous of that foolish dream,
dear William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers on graves; and this
shall be sacred to the memory of a dream. Ah, what a bright little
cluster of Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what you call them
in _Old_ England,” said he; “but in _New_ England we name them Ladies’
Delights, though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic Edward
preferred the Eglantine; but _this_ is an especial favourite with your
practical William. I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at
all seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers. If I were
like _you_, I should say it was the efflorescence of Yankee character.”
She clapped her hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You are growing
poetic. I will name your little favourite the Yankee’s Flower; and that
will be _myself_, you see; for I am the Yankee’s Flower.” She looked
into his honest eyes affectionately, and added, “There is _one_ Yankee
character who is a Lady’s Delight.”
Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in childish pleasures, their
united lives flowed smoothly on, like some full, bright, unobstructed
stream. The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a pure lily on
the stream. Their happiness was now complete. Their grateful souls asked
for nothing but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas, sudden as
the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep shadow fell on their sunny
prospect. William was called away a few days on business. He left home
full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered corpse. He had
been killed by an accident, in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella
known any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow. It saddened
her to bid farewell to that first love-picture, which never emerged out
of the mistiness of dream-land; but this sober certainty of wedded
happiness was such a living true reality, that all her heart-strings
bled, when it was wrenched from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul
would have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow, had it not
been for the blessed ministration of her babe, and the necessity of
continuing to labour for its future support and education. The body of
William was buried in a pretty little grove on her father’s farm; and
every year the mound was completely covered with a fresh bed of Ladies’
Delights, which his little girl learned to call “Farder’s Fower.”
* * * * *
Time passed and brought healing on its wings. Sibella never expected to
know happiness again, but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her
little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the good
grandmother’s care. She continued to teach in the city, spending all her
vacations, and most of her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory
lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and often watered with tears.
That other island of Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a
moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening, as she returned from
school, she found the little one watching for her, as usual. The
indulgent grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom, for which
she had been teazing. In her eagerness to bestow something on her
mother, the child thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma’s Fower!”
That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories. Not for years had the
blooming lanes of old England been so distinctly pictured in the mirror
of her soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon met her in the
prairie and gave her a torch-flower he had gathered. The child’s
exclamation had produced the train of thought of which the dream was
born; and the dream induced her to look at the verses which had long
remained unopened. Ten years had passed since they were written. The
paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine blossom was yellow and
wrinkled. Still the sight of it recalled the very look and tone with
which it was offered. The halo of glory with which her youthful
imagination had invested the rhymes was dimmer now; and yet they seemed
to her “_si belle!_”
The afternoon of that day, she sat with her mother, busily employed
trimming a bonnet for their little darling, who was equally busy under
the window, sticking an apron-full of wild-flowers into the ground, to
make an impromptu garden. A voice called out, “Sir, will you have the
goodness to give me a little help? My carriage has broken down.” Sibella
started suddenly, and the bonnet fell from her hand. “What is the matter
with you?” said her mother. “It is merely some traveler in trouble. That
bad place in the road yonder _must_ be mended.” Sibella resumed her
work, saying, “I am strangely nervous to-day.” But in the secret
chambers of her own mind, there was a voice whispering, “My dream! My
dream! _Can_ it be, as some people say, that there is a magnetic
influence on the soul when certain individuals approach, each other?”
Presently, her father entered, leading a small boy, “Take care of this
little fellow,” said he, “his father’s carriage has broken down, out by
the hill.” The young widow rose, and greeted the little stranger with
such motherly tenderness, that he looked up in her face confidingly,
with a half-formed smile. But she gazed into his eyes so earnestly, that
he turned away partly afraid. The little girl offered him her flowers,
and they sat down on the floor to play together. It was not long, before
the farmer entered with the traveler; a refined looking gentleman,
apparently about thirty years old. The old lady rose to greet him; but
Sibella stooped to gather up the ribbons, which had fallen from her
trembling hands. Browned as he was by wind and sun, she recognized him
instantly. In fact she had already recognized his eyes and smile in the
face of his son. She wondered whether he would know _her_. Was she like
an Eglantine _now_? Having resumed a sufficient degree of self-command,
while picking up the ribbons, she rose, and advanced toward him, with a
blush and a smile. He started--uttered an exclamation of surprise--then
seized her hand and kissed it.
“Bless my soul! It’s Mr. Vernon! And I didn’t know him!” exclaimed Mrs.
Flower. “Well this _is_ strange, I do declare!”
When their mutual surprise had subsided, many questions about old
England were asked and answered. But it was not until after supper that
their guest spoke of his own plans. Pointing to his son, he said, “I am
a lonely man, with only that one tie to bind me to the world. My father
and mother are dead; and as it was for their sakes only that I consented
to endure the fetters of over-civilized life, I formed the resolution of
coming into these Western wilds, to live with nature in her freedom and
simplicity. I was not altogether selfish in this movement, for I felt
confident it was the best way to form a manly character for my son. No
cousin Alfred will stand in his sunshine _here_. Come, Edward,” said he,
“introduce your little friend to me.” The boy sprang forward joyfully,
and climbed his father’s knee. “The little friend must sit on the other
knee,” said he. “Go and bring her. You are not gallant to the little
lady.” But the little lady was shy. She hid herself behind a chair, and
would not be easily persuaded. At last, however, her mother coaxed her
to be led up to the stranger gentleman, to see him open his gold watch.
He placed her on his knee and asked her name; and, emboldened by his
caresses, she looked up in his face, and answered, “Teena.” He glanced
inquiringly toward her mother, who, blushing slightly, answered, “I
named her Eglantina; but, in her lisping way, she calls herself Teena;
and we have all adopted her fashion, except grandfather, who varies it a
little by calling her Teeny.” A pleased expression went over Mr.
Vernon’s face, as he replied, “You did well to name her for yourself;
for she resembles you, as the bud of the Eglantine resembles the
blossom.” As he spoke thus, the ten intervening years rolled away like a
curtain, and they both found themselves walking again in the blooming
lanes of old England.
* * * * *
Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a guest at Flower Farm, as
it was called. He entered into negotiations for a tract of land in the
neighbourhood, and found pleasant occupation in hunting, fishing, and
planning his house and grounds. Sibella and the children often
accompanied him in his excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with
a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and dotted with isolated
groves, like islands, charmed him with its novelty of beauty. “I am
perpetually astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness of nature in
this region,” said he. He gathered one of the plants at his feet, and
presenting it to Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was not
appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What do you think of dreams?” she
replied; then seeing that he was surprised by the abruptness of the
question, she told him she had dreamed, the night before his arrival,
that she met him on the prairie, and received a torch-flower from his
hand. He smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for Hymen’s
torch.” He looked at her smilingly as he spoke; for he was bolder now
than when he wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount into her
cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand, and said, “It blushes more
deeply than my old favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her
embarrassment, Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton and her
neighbours; adding, “Among all these questions, I have not yet asked if
your sister is living.”