We must now return to sweet Lily Grey, whom we left so unceremoniously
at Mr. Mason’s gate, after her adventure in the woods with Frederick
Gordon. When she entered the house, she did not, as usual, repair
immediately to the common parlor or sitting-room as it was called, but
ascending the stairs she sought her own chamber. Hastily throwing off
her bonnet, she approached the small mirror, and slowly removing the
handkerchief which was fastened around her temples, endeavored to
ascertain the extent of the injury she had received. She found that it
was nothing but a tolerably deep incision, made, apparently, by a very
sharp stone. The bleeding had ceased, and she soon succeeded in closing
the wound by the help of some narrow strips of plaster.
She then seated herself by the low window, and tried to recall the
events of the day. Dear Lily Grey! what a fount of deep, pure,
exquisite, yet strange happiness had welled up in her young heart since
she went forth that summer afternoon upon her errand of mercy to old
Mrs. Forster’s cottage! Yet bright tear-drops were continually sparkling
in her beautiful eyes, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely
smooth the shining curls that fell without restraint upon her shoulders.
For a long time she sat there by the window; darkness came on, but she
heeded it not; there was no darkness of the spirit there, and her heart
was illumined in its innermost recesses by light from within, light that
depended not upon outward objects—light clearer than that of the sun at
noonday.
“Why, Lily dear!” exclaimed the cheerful voice of Mrs. Mason, “are you
here? We thought you had not come in yet; and fearing you were lost or
in some trouble or other, George started in pursuit of you some time
ago. And now, while he is tramping through the woods in search of you,
here you are, ensconced in your own little room safe as a saint in her
niche. But bless me, child! why, what a wound upon your forehead,” and
dropping the bantering tone she had before used, and approaching quickly
to Lily’s side, the good lady asked seriously, “What _is_ the matter,
Lily? What has happened?”
“There is nothing of consequence the matter now,” replied Lily, and she
rapidly sketched the occurrences of the afternoon. She did not think it
necessary to tell the whole story, and was thankful that the blush she
felt rising to her very forehead, as she mentioned the name of Frederick
Gordon, was concealed by the increasing darkness.
“Really, quite a romantic adventure you have had,” said her aunt, as
Lily concluded her little story. “I suppose that, as in duty bound, you
intend falling in love with Mr. Gordon forthwith. I fancy your bright
eyes had done some mischief in that quarter already; and now wouldn’t it
be funny if we should have a wedding here, eh Lily?” And thus she
rattled on while they were descending the stairs, and proceeding to the
parlor where tea was waiting, never once dreaming that there was any
thing like truth in her playful jest. Had she done so she would have
been very serious, for she well knew it was no light thing for a maiden
to place that priceless treasure, her young heart’s pure love, in
another’s keeping.
Lily escaped from the family circle soon after tea that evening, under
plea of fatigue; and, in truth, she felt the need of rest. She longed to
be alone with her newly born happiness; to recall the looks and words
that had so thrilled her heart. She was young, very young, almost a
child in years; and she had not learned that the treasure she had found
that day was one to be received with fear and trembling. She took the
angel guest to her bosom, tearfully, it is true, but oh! most joyfully;
and she lay down upon her couch that night to dream only of long, long
days of bliss. She knew, indeed, that something of sorrow must fall to
the lot of mortals; but would not even _that_ be sweet if shared with
_him_? With such thoughts as these she knelt to offer up her evening
prayer, and to bless her Father in Heaven for the new well-spring of joy
that had sprung up in her pathway.
How bright and beautiful was every thing in the outer world when Lily
awoke next morning! There had been a shower during the night, and a
thousand gems were sparkling upon every tree and shrub and flower. The
mist was rolling up from the mountains, but it yet lay heavily above the
bed of the river, marking its windings as far as the eye could reach. It
seemed to Lily that earth was never so beautiful before; and there was
melody in her young heart as she stood by the open window, listening to
the trilling of the birds, the low murmur of the water-fall, and all the
sweet sounds with which Nature welcomes the approach of the May god.
When, her simple toilet completed, she descended to breakfast that
morning, old Mr. and Mrs. Mason noted with surprise her unwonted
loveliness. She was, indeed, as Frederick Gordon had said, very lovely
at all times; but now her face was radiant with happiness—that most
efficacious of all cosmetics—and her eyes beamed with added lustre.
Perhaps, too, she might have arranged her dress with rather more care
than usual; for in those primitive days it was not considered necessary
to attend to the duties of the toilet half-a-dozen times a day, and Lily
had whispered to herself, “Frederick will surely be here to-day.”
But the morning passed and no Frederick appeared. Hour after hour of the
afternoon rolled away, and still he came not. She listened, with a
beating heart to every approaching footstep, and wondered what could
keep him from her side. At length she heard in the distance the sound of
approaching wheels. She looked from the window and saw Mr. Gordon’s
carriage slowly toiling up the hill, and, shrinking behind the curtain,
she watched it as it drew nearer and nearer. There was a figure upon the
back seat, closely muffled in a cloak, which did not seem to be
particularly needed at that season of the year; and her heart told her
that it was the figure of him for whom she had watched and waited
through the day. But the noble steeds halted not; the carriage rolled
slowly by, and the muffled figure drew the folds of the mantle still
more closely about it, and shrank back still farther into its dark
corner.
The young girl gazed upon the vehicle until it faded from her sight;
then sinking back upon her seat she covered her face with her hands.
When she removed them, although her cheek was pale as marble there was
no other sign of suffering. She could not, even yet, doubt that the
mystery would be explained—perhaps after all it was not Frederick, and
with that thought her spirits returned.
Just at dusk Mr. Mason came in from the village, and turning to Lily,
said—“Lily, why did you not tell us that Fred Gordon was to leave us
to-day? Of course you knew, as you saw him yesterday?”
Lily was spared the necessity of replying, for her aunt immediately
exclaimed—“Fred Gordon left us! where is he going, pray?”
“Why, he goes to-night,” was the reply, “in their own carriage as far as
P——, and from that place takes the stage to-morrow for New York. His
father tells me that he is to sail for Europe in the ‘Virginia’ next
month, and will probably remain four or five years.”
Amid the hum of voices, the exclamations of surprise, the inquiries and
surmises to which this intelligence gave rise—for be it remembered, a
voyage to Europe was a much more formidable undertaking then than in
these days of steamships—no one noticed Lily. It was as we have said
just at dusk, and with a dread foreboding of she knew not what evil, she
had glided to the farthest corner of the room, and remained there
effectually concealed by the gathering shadows. When the words that to
her seemed the death-knell of every hope were pronounced, she did not
speak, she did not even sigh, but standing motionless for a moment, with
her eyes fixed wildly upon the speaker, she threw up her white arms
once, twice convulsively, and then sank slowly to the floor—breathless
and inanimate. Poor, poor Lily Grey.