HUSH! HUSH!
A LEGEND OF RHINELAND.
———
BY DONALD MACLEOD.
———
I was so tired of Mayence. I had seen the cathedral so often, and witnessed the stiff recruit drillings in the barrack-yard, and crossed the bridge of boats, and wandered in the palatial gardens of Biberich, and ridden to Francfort to look at the Ariadne, or Lessing’s “Trial of Huss,” or Overbeck’s “Triumph of Religion,” or old Rothschild, or the Austrian soldiers, or the Kaisersaal, or the statue of Goethe, or the shop windows, or the English travelers in thick shoes and incipient moustaches, or at some other of the thousand-and-one curiosities of the quaint old Freistadt—that some change became absolutely necessary.
I tried to speak Danish with the only other idle man in the Three Crowns, but he did not understand me: then he spoke English, but I did not understand him; and then we took off our hats, bowed, grinned at each other in a most imbecile manner, and turned away. He sat down at a little table in thesalle á manger, and called for a bottle of Braunerberger; and I packed up a little traveling sack, got on board a steamboat, and was whisked off down the Rhine.
On the steamer—dampfschiffsays the German, but the Dutchman calls itstoomboot—just opposite me sat an old, fat German lady, by the side of her old, fat spouse. He was smoking his pipe; she was patting his plump left hand between her own. Sometimes he would take the meerschaum from his lips, turn round slowly and regard his mate through the light clouds issuing from his mouth; then the old lady would give him a wide and benign smile, and pat his left hand a little more rapidly; after which he would resume the pipe, and both would subside into their ordinary, fat calm.
The only other thing that much attracted my attention on board, was a small boy gorging himself with walnuts, gingerbread and apples in rapid and endless succession, till his dull, blue eyes seemed to be on the point of popping out of his head.
Whether they did so eventually or not, I cannot say, for I went ashore at Lorch, and gave my sack to a one-eyed waiter at the Swan inn.
Lorch, as you know, is just below the Mouse Tower (Mauesenthurm) in which cruel Bishop Hatto was eaten by the rats, in punition of his cruelty in withholding the grain from the people in time of famine—and just above old Baccharach (Bacchi Ara,) which owes its name to its wealth of vines. Above it, in it, around it, below it, the hill sides were green with luxuriant foliage, nearly all the houses are wine shops, grapes are the only fruit—most of the stone is in the form of jugs, and most of the glass is bottle glass—I might add, that what little meadow there is, is bottle green.
Zu Klingenberg am Main,Zu Wuerzburg an dem Stein,Zu Baccharach am RheinHab’ ich in meinen TagenGar oftmals hörem sagen,Soll’n sein die besten Wein’.At Klingenburg on Main, at Würzburg on the Stein,And at Baccharach on the Rhine,Every worthy son of Herman, swears in donnerwettrous German,That they grow the choicest wine.
Zu Klingenberg am Main,Zu Wuerzburg an dem Stein,Zu Baccharach am RheinHab’ ich in meinen TagenGar oftmals hörem sagen,Soll’n sein die besten Wein’.At Klingenburg on Main, at Würzburg on the Stein,And at Baccharach on the Rhine,Every worthy son of Herman, swears in donnerwettrous German,That they grow the choicest wine.
Zu Klingenberg am Main,Zu Wuerzburg an dem Stein,Zu Baccharach am RheinHab’ ich in meinen TagenGar oftmals hörem sagen,Soll’n sein die besten Wein’.At Klingenburg on Main, at Würzburg on the Stein,And at Baccharach on the Rhine,Every worthy son of Herman, swears in donnerwettrous German,That they grow the choicest wine.
Zu Klingenberg am Main,
Zu Wuerzburg an dem Stein,
Zu Baccharach am Rhein
Hab’ ich in meinen Tagen
Gar oftmals hörem sagen,
Soll’n sein die besten Wein’.
At Klingenburg on Main, at Würzburg on the Stein,
And at Baccharach on the Rhine,
Every worthy son of Herman, swears in donnerwettrous German,
That they grow the choicest wine.
Joyously sweeps the Rhine by Lorch, through the home of the German Lyæus—sweeps swiftly but crookedly in a rollicking, tipsy way, whispering to the vineyards the last news from the glaciers, and stopping for an instant at the gate of Lorch to get a drink of water which the modest little Wisper furnishes.
I went strolling up the banks of that same modest little Wisper, listening to the strange sound of the north wind soughing through the valley—precisely resembling, as the name implies, the busy whispers of a thousand spirits in the air.
When I say the sound of the wind, I use the language of foolish men. I know better. Spirits are they; but whether good or bad, angels or cobbolds, minions of Rübezahl, or gentle fays, gnomes, pixies or Loreleis, I, alas, cannot tell; but I know what I think—For—
When I had gotten well into the valley, and was skirting a knot of thick willows, with my eyes fixed upon a wild looking rock before me, there came a sough heavier than usual, and a gruff “Hein!” was uttered near me. I turned and saw an immense head, all forehead and pale blue eyes, covered with very little hair, and apparently without a body, waving to and fro upon the tops of the rank weeds.
“Dame!” said I.
“Guten Tag,” said the head, and it came toward me. Then I saw that there was a body under it, clad in velveteen shooting-jacket and trousers, with a pipe stem visibly protruding from one pocket, and aschnaps-flaschefrom another.
Then I returned the salutation; and the head began to be wiped with a yellow silk handkerchief, clutched in a red, fire-like hand, and to talk with great rapidity.
“Hein! it is very warm to-day. Walking for your pleasure, no doubt. Your very good health, sir, and to our better acquaintance. Try a drop of schnaps.” As he spoke he took the pewter flask from his pocket, slipped off the false bottom which served for a cup, filled it, bolted the contents, and then refilling it, handed it to me.
I rendered it all due justice, and pointing to the wild scene before us, asked him if it were familiar to him.
“Familiar!” he exclaimed. “I should suppose so.It is one of the most awful places in the country, although a little safer now than it used to be. You know what happened here to Johann Würzelkopf, Herman Weinsoffer, and Mäusche Kleidermacher?”
“I am sorry to be so ill-informed, but I never even heard of those gentlemen. I wish you would tell me the story.”
“I will; but first try some more schnaps. No more! Why? Well, I will; here’s to you. And now let us sit down here on this bit of wall. Don’t be frightened, and don’t go to sleep, and I will tell about the three little burghers of Mayence.”
I obeyed all the little man’s directions, and he continued:
“Johann Würzelkopf, Herman Weinsoffer and Mäusche Kleidermacher were three young burghers of Mayence, from twenty-one to twenty-five years old it may be; old enough to enjoy personal liberty, but not old enough always to take care of themselves, the proof of which assertion will be seen in the sequel.
“Now, instead of going to mass, like good Rhenish Christians, they must needs pick out thePfingstenfest, that is, Pentecost morning for a frolick on the river, and going to Baccharach below there, they spent the morning in proving the excellence of the wines; and when filled with courage, pottle deep, they came up the river to Lorch, and out to the valley here to seek for adventures, forsooth. Well, they found them.”
Here the little man gave a low, malicious chuckle, and went on.
“They pushed through yonder thicket to the face of those rocks there, which to their eyes took the form of an immense old castle; and the clefts resembled Gothic pointed doors, and the crannies and crevices looked like windows. As they were gazing, they espied at one of these pretended windows three faces of enchanting beauty. Golden hair falling over shoulders of ivory, blue eyes full of merriment, and crimson, pouting lips, smiling just enough to show teeth like pearls. As they gazed, these pretty lips opened a little wider to emit this sound—
“‘Hush! Hush!’ each of the three sweet mouths said ‘Hush!’ and the little sense which remained in the heads of the youngsters was driven away, and they became half crazy with love for the three enchantresses. A white hand and arm then pointed to a doorway, and the young men entered it and made their way along a narrow hall, where they found themselves suddenly in profoundest darkness, while around them rustled, with a thousand echoes, the mysterious ‘hush! hush!’ After some groping about, however, they at last found a door, which they opened and entered an immense saloon, lined with mirrors and blazing with a thousand lights.
“And the sweet voices of the three maidens cried ‘Welcome, welcome!’ and the ivory arms were stretched out toward the young men for an embrace. But the blaze of light dazzled them, and the mirrors showed not three maidens, but three thousand! Turnwhere they would, they saw ivory arms extended, and red lips smiling welcome, and golden hair rolling over shoulders of snow.
“So the blockheads stood with gaping mouths, grinning foolishly, and open eyes staring at the maidens or their images, until one of the mirrors slid back, and a stern, powerful old man came into the room, clad in a long, velvet robe, to the girdle of which his grizzled beard fell thickly.
“‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘No doubt you have come to espouse my daughters!’
“But the burghers thought of their schätzen at Mayence, and felt no especial affection toward such a father-in-law. A little amusement with the young beauties were all very well, but matrimony! Ah, that was more serious.
“‘You hesitate,’ said the old man, ‘do not fear; I am no miser, I drive no hard bargain. Each of those maidens has a thousand pounds of gold as portion. And there is room in the castle ditch for three bodies larger than yours are.’
“Then again the charmers wooed the young men with smiles, and opened their ivory arms, and threw back the golden hair, shaking from the tresses an intoxicating perfume.
“‘Do you still hesitate,’ thundered the imperious gray-beard.
“‘No—no—no, my lord,’ stammered the burghers of Mayence.
“‘It is well for you!’ and he laughed a grisly laugh. ‘So, now embrace your brides.’
“So they advanced with extended hands, but only touched the gold surface of the glass; and whichever way they turned, they saw the ivory arms, and heard the mocking laugh of the old man, mingled now with the silvery voices of the maidens, yet could find nothing but the mirrors that multiplied the figures of their brides, until at last they were half crazy. Then the father-in-law guided them toward the smiling beauties, and the touch of their hands and the flavor of their lips achieved the enchantment.
“‘One moment,’ cried the graybeard; ‘before your perfect union, one proof of your tenderness is required. My daughters have lost their favorite birds, a starling, a crow, and a magpie. They are undoubtedly in the forest there, and we are not permitted to leave the castle until after the marriage of my daughters.’
“‘How shall we know them from other birds of the same species?’ asked Würzelkopf.
“‘For it must be confessed,’ added Weinsoffer with much wisdom, ‘that one crow is very like another crow.’
“‘And magpies generally go in pairs, you know.’ This last remark was made by Mäusche Kleidermacher, and exhibited an observation of the habits of birds, remarkably creditable to a burgher of Mayence.
“‘You will have little difficulty in recognizing these birds, my dear sons-in-law, since they all speak when spoken to; the starling with a riddle, the crow in a song, and the magpie in a biographyof his grandmother. Go then, my sons, get the birds, come back and be happy.’
“Then he led them to the door, and they went forth into the forest. They had not wandered far before they saw the three birds sitting all upon one tree, saying and doing nothing.
“‘Starling,’ said Johann Würzelkopf, ‘can’st thou make riddles?’ and the starling answered, flying to his shoulder.
“‘What’s on your face, oh burgher, know you,That the best of mirrors cannot show you?’
“‘What’s on your face, oh burgher, know you,That the best of mirrors cannot show you?’
“‘What’s on your face, oh burgher, know you,That the best of mirrors cannot show you?’
“‘What’s on your face, oh burgher, know you,
That the best of mirrors cannot show you?’
Johann Würzelkopf of course did not know, and therefore gave up all his attention to his comrade, Weinsoffer, who was asking the crow for a song. That bird, well-known as a musical character since the days of Æsop, sang thus—
“‘Three friars of excellent appetites coastedA land where the ortolans fly ready roasted,And stood, begging all of those nice little pulletsTo be good enough just to fly down their gullets.But their throats were too large, or the birds too well grown,For not even one could contrive to get down;And the monks went off cursing the country o’er all,Where the birds were too fat, or the gullets too small.’
“‘Three friars of excellent appetites coastedA land where the ortolans fly ready roasted,And stood, begging all of those nice little pulletsTo be good enough just to fly down their gullets.But their throats were too large, or the birds too well grown,For not even one could contrive to get down;And the monks went off cursing the country o’er all,Where the birds were too fat, or the gullets too small.’
“‘Three friars of excellent appetites coastedA land where the ortolans fly ready roasted,And stood, begging all of those nice little pulletsTo be good enough just to fly down their gullets.But their throats were too large, or the birds too well grown,For not even one could contrive to get down;And the monks went off cursing the country o’er all,Where the birds were too fat, or the gullets too small.’
“‘Three friars of excellent appetites coasted
A land where the ortolans fly ready roasted,
And stood, begging all of those nice little pullets
To be good enough just to fly down their gullets.
But their throats were too large, or the birds too well grown,
For not even one could contrive to get down;
And the monks went off cursing the country o’er all,
Where the birds were too fat, or the gullets too small.’
“Weinsoffer was endeavoring to find the moral of this, when Mäusche Kleidermacher asked the magpie for his biographical-grandmaternal information, and Mag said, as the crow flew on Weinsoffer’s shoulder—
“‘My grandmother was a magpie,Who laid a vast number of eggs,From each of which came a magpie.And I think she would be living yet,Only one day she happened to die.’
“‘My grandmother was a magpie,Who laid a vast number of eggs,From each of which came a magpie.And I think she would be living yet,Only one day she happened to die.’
“‘My grandmother was a magpie,Who laid a vast number of eggs,From each of which came a magpie.And I think she would be living yet,Only one day she happened to die.’
“‘My grandmother was a magpie,
Who laid a vast number of eggs,
From each of which came a magpie.
And I think she would be living yet,
Only one day she happened to die.’
“So singing, the magpie hopped upon Mäusche’s shoulder, and the three friends went back to the castle, which they reached and entered before nightfall. But ah! what a change! Instead of mirrors and blaze of torches, and waving of golden hair, and gleam of ivory arms, they saw but cold, bare walls, tapestried by cobwebs, or the light moss produced by dampness. Sole relic of past glory was that three tables stood near each other, covered with all that could tempt the appetite, each in the guard of a toothless, wrinkled, blear-eyed, abominable old hag.
“While the three young men stood gaping, the old hags advanced, and drawing them with cold, claw-like hands toward the tables, cried ‘Welcome, dear bridegrooms.’ And then once seated at the tables, they caressed the poor burghers with their snaky arms, picked out dainty pieces of food and put them with their black, long-nailed fingers into the mouths of the bridegrooms, mumbling out nauseous endearments through their toothless jaws.
“Then they would have a wedding-dance; and springing up, they whirled their partners round and round the rooms, their old joints cracking like fifty castanets, their shrill voices screaming out a rapid song. And the starling, the crow, and the magpie flew rapidly through the mazes of the crazy waltz, perching now and then on head or shoulder, and screaming, croaking, chattering incessantly their riddle, their song, their story of the grandmother, until whatsoever brains were possessed by Johann Würzelkopf,Herman Weinsoffer, and Mäusche Kleidermacher, were so twisted and jumbled together, so wearied and stunned, so deafened and bedeviled, that they fell in sheer exhaustion, each with individual grunt, upon the floor.
“Then all the noise ceased but the low, thousand-voiced utterance, ‘Hush! hush! hush!’
“After lying thus upon the floor for some time, the youths were helped upon their feet by their attentive brides, and supported, with much tenderness, toward the tables. Then each old hag poured a little golden wine into a glass of Venice, and kissing the rim held it to the lips of her bridegroom. And when the three little burghers of Mayence had swallowed the draught, they fell in a senseless lethargy upon the floor.
“When they awaked the sun was high up in heaven. They found themselves lying among the furze at the foot of the rock, which, however, no more resembled a castle than it did a rose-bush. It was as common and disagreeable a mass of stone, granitic or otherwise, as one could wish to see. Full of shame, and foaming with rage, they began to make their way through the woods; but the horrible ‘hush! hush!’ sounded from all sides; the old witches looked out mockingly from every bush, and the three birds followed them, hopping from tree to tree; the starling proposing his riddle, the crow singing his song, and the magpie as biographical as ever.
“Nor were they at all relieved until they got to the edge of the wood, where they met a little man—just as you met me this morning, sir—and of him they demanded what these infernal birds could mean.
“‘The answer to the starling’s riddle,’ said the little man, ‘is, that each of you have received, invisibly to yourselves, a good six inches of additional nose. But the crow instructs you, when you have good, little sweethearts at home, to stick to them, and not to go about gaping at every pretty face whose lips may cry ‘hush! hush!’ as if you expected her to fly down your throats as the friars did the ortolans.’
“‘But the magpie, worthy sir; what does she mean?’ cried the three.
“‘Oh, the magpie! Why she tells just such a story of her grandmother as your grandchildren will tell of you.’
“So Weinsoffer, Würzelkopf and Kleidermacher went on their way, repentant and resolving—which is the moral of this legend—never to get tipsy on holyday mornings, and not to be attracted by every pretty face that might cry ‘hush! hush!’ from a window.
“Such, sir, is the legend, and see yonder is the very magpie!”
I turned to look, but saw no bird whatever, only I heard a chuckling laugh behind me, and when I turned round, the little man with the large head had disappeared.
So I reflected that he was perhaps the father of the three witches, and had been making fun of me. Then I shrugged my shoulders and walked meditatively back to Lorch.
ANNIE MORTON.
———
BY AMY HARNED.
———
“There comes dear father at last!” exclaimed Annie Morton, springing from her seat at an open window through which she had been earnestly looking a long time in expectation of his arrival, while her sewing rested unheeded upon her lap. “Oh, what a long, long week this has been without him: dear father!” And the rich blood mantled on her cheek; her black eyes sparkled, and the smile that parted her ruby lips made her very beautiful, as she stood for one moment ere she sprang through the casement and down the long avenue to meet the carriage which contained her father.
The mother looked after her daughter with pride; but pressing her hand upon her heart as if in pain, she sunk back upon her seat.
“Ah! what will she do without me, wild wayward as she is?” murmured Mrs. Morton. “The world has sadness in store for thee I fear, my daughter; when I am gone, who will shield thee, and care for thee, as I have done?”
A deep shade of sadness rested for a moment upon her face; but it passed away as the mother bowed her head in prayer for her passionate, wayward, but loving child.
She heard the party approaching the house, heard the kind voice of her husband as he answered the questions which Annie poured upon him, and with a sweet smile Mrs. Morton rose to meet them. The excitement of meeting her husband, after his temporary absence, brought a slight flush upon her cheek, making her look better than she really was; but it gladdened the heart of Mr. Morton, for when he left home she was so ill as to cause him much alarm; and as he folded his wife in his arms, he said, tenderly—
“Why, my dear Mary, I shall leave home oftener if my absence causes you to look so well. I have not seen so handsome a woman since I have been in B——; but I must not forget—here is a young gentleman waiting to be presented to you: I know you will welcome him.”
Tears stood in Robert Dennyn’s eyes. There was something in Mrs. Morton’s face, in her sweet, sad smile that reminded him painfully of his mother, who—but a few weeks previous—he had seen laid in the cold ground, hidden forever from his sight. He could scarcely command his voice to speak. Mrs. Morton noticed his agitation, and divined the cause of it. She extended both hands to him, and said—
“Robert Dennyn, I am glad to see you here. Your mother was the dearest friend of my girlhood; for the love of our early days, a son of hers will ever be most dear to me.”
“Charlie will be at home to-morrow, Robert,” interrupted Mr. Morton gaily, anxious to give a less serious turn to the conversation; “but I do not intend to set you down to your books yet awhile, my boy; you have studied too much already—you need rest. I wish to see you strong and well: exercise will be the best thing for you. There are horses in the stable at your service; and Annie, as wild a madcap as ever set foot in a saddle, ready to point out the beauties of all the country round, provided you can read Miss Landon to her, and listen to her chattering. What say you, my little magpie, will you have this young gentleman for your knight-errant? I doubt not he will be willing to do your bidding.”
Annie replied merrily: supper was announced, and, in pleasant chat, the evening passed rapidly away.
Charlie Morton came the next day; and the warm grasp of his hand told to Robert how much he sympathized with him in the trials he had endured since they left college.
No two persons could be more unlike than Charlie Morton and Robert Dennyn. Robert was tall, handsome, and but for the gaucherie of a boy unused to society, would have been very graceful. His face was pale, but the outline was perfect; a little too thin perhaps. At times, his large black eyes flashed and sparkled with a brilliancy that lighted up his pale face, otherwise—in its expression—too grave; and he surprised as well as interested his companions, for when in conversation he would forget himself—few youths could be more irresistible.
Though brought up in a city, he had been more secluded than boys are generally, therefore his manners needed that ease and self-confidence which is only acquired by intercourse with society.
His time, during his vacations, had been passed chiefly with his mother, whom he idolized. As he approached manhood, he saw that mother—so dear—fading slowly away. When the reality first burst upon him that she was dying, Robert was stunned—paralyzed beyond the power of action. Was there no elixir of life within his reach? Alas! no.
The messenger of death came gently, peacefully to Mrs. Dennyn, and she died, blessing her husband and son for their unwearied love, their untiring devotion, which had soothed her many years of suffering.
For a long time, Robert refused to be comforted; he had loved his mother with an intensity which admitted no other thought. Life, indeed, to him seemed a blank without her.
Just at this time, Mr. Morton paid his old friend a visit. He was a man of acknowledged ability, and Mr. Dennyn knew that in placing his son with him, he would secure for him an able legal preceptor, as well as a kind friend. Mr. Morton willingly received him under his charge, while Robert gladly acceptedthe offer of his father which removed him, for a time, from that home, now rendered painful by its memories of the dead. He came to Mr. Morton’s with a heart saddened by the scenes of sorrow, through which he had so recently passed; and the warm affection with which the family greeted him, made him feel at once that he was not among strangers.
Charlie and himself had long been friends: in college they were regarded as a miracle of brotherly attachment. No wonder—for who could look upon the clear, open, manly brow of Charlie Morton, and hear his ringing joyous laugh, and not love him. Care sat lightly upon him. His step was quick and free; his whole manner beaming with kindness and good-nature made him everywhere a welcome guest, and his return home a cause for rejoicing. His father was very proud of him, for he had come off with flying colors at the final collegiate examination which he had, with Robert Dennyn, so recently passed. The late commencement Annie would have attended, had not Mrs. Morton’s unlooked for indisposition detained her at home. She bore the disappointment with a grace which proved she was not entirely selfish. She was now wild with glee at the return of her only brother, whom she dearly loved.
The coming of Robert Dennyn was an event which decided the destiny of her life. He was just the sort of person to enchain the affections of a girl of seventeen. She soon learned to watch for his coming; to listen for his voice; to note the ever-varying expression of his countenance with an eager interest which none but those who have loved can ever know.
Robert felt the power of her beauty. A warm affection began to spring up in his heart for her—but Annie was pettish and willful. Her passionate temper knew no bounds—her violence repelled him many times when he felt most tenderly toward her.
“She has no heart,” he would say; and struggled to overcome the growing interest he felt in her.
When she would be left alone after having given vent to her temper, Annie would feel overwhelmed with shame and self-reproach; but she was ever too proud to acknowledge her faults, yet—although passionate and willful—Annie’s character had in it the elements of a noble nature, had there been some one near her who could have checked her wayward impulses, and taught her to subdue her proud will. She went on heedlessly; “sowing the wind” in her folly, and, alas! in due time did she not “reap the whirlwind?”
“Annie,” said Mr. Morton one day, “my friend, Mr. Leslie, has purchased Longbrook. I congratulate you, for he has two daughters about your own age. You will no longer want society: you, too, Charlie, must ride over with Annie to see them; and Robert, Mr. Leslie is also an old friend of your father; for the sake of ‘auld lang syne,’ I should like you all to be upon pleasant terms of intimacy.”
Flora and Mary Leslie, though sisters, bore little resemblance to each other, either in person or character. Flora was the more beautiful. Her face was of a style rarely seen; pale as a marble statue and as cold: not a tinge of color ever mantled her cheeks. Her hair—black as night—she wore parted smoothly over her brow, and folded in rich braids on her classic head, with a simplicity that defied ornament. Her eyes were not black, but of a deep, dark blue, with long black lashes that swept over her cheeks, still paler from the contrast. Her figure was tall and exquisitely moulded. Her beauty did not, however, leave a pleasant impression. There was no woman’s gentleness, no warmth in her manner; one felt as in the presence of an iceberg. Her sister, on the contrary, seemed like a little sylph; and Robert Dennyn’s eyes rested so fondly upon her, as to cause Annie Morton’s heart to sink within her.
Mary Leslie’s hair floated in ringlets round her neck with a wild grace; her bright blue eyes gave so clear a light, and her laugh was so innocent and happy, that one felt certain that no guile was in her heart.
Annie Morton and the Leslies were daily companions; and when their hours of study were over, Charlie Morton and Robert Dennyn always knew where to find the young girls. Bright visions of the future rose up before them; and, was it strange that in the dreams of each, the gentle, loving Mary Leslie walked, side by side, through their life with them? Both the young men loved her. The elder sister was too cold. Charlie said she lacked sincerity; and Robert, though he admired her, felt a chill in her presence, the cause of which he did not seek to divine.
But, though the young men loved best to linger by the side of sweet Mary Leslie, Annie Morton was more with Flora. There was something in the boldness and haughtiness of Flora’s manner that agreed with her own impulsive temper, she gradually fell more and more under Flora’s influence. Mrs. Morton watched with pain the growing intimacy of the young girls; she felt—with a mother’s instinct—that Flora was a dangerous companion for her daughter, and often urged her to be more with Mary.
“Why should I not choose my own friends?” Annie would exclaim, when Mrs. Morton remonstrated with her. “What do you know against her, mother?”
“Nothing, my child; but I know my daughter has altered very, very much since she has been so intimate with her. Flora Leslie is not pure and guileless as her sister.”
But the mother’s counsels were unheeded by Annie—she was unhappy. She began almost to hate Mary Leslie. The jealous friend was constantly whispering that, but for Mary, Robert might be all her own. The thought tortured her night and day. A dark, sullen cloud settled over her brow—she became more and more unloving and unlovely. Robert turned from her—to breathe the calm atmosphere which surrounded Mary—with a sigh, that one so beautiful could display so little tenderness.
Mrs. Morton’s health grew more delicate, and Annie therefore more free to do as she willed; for Mr. Morton was too indulgent, and Charlie too much occupied with his own dreams, which were approachingtheir realization, to notice the change that had crept over Annie.
“I am going to B——, to-morrow, Charlie,” said Robert, the day after his examination; for the three years of study had passed thus quickly away, bringing our young friends over the threshold of manhood and womanhood.
“Leave us so soon! I did not expect this, Robert—what shall I do without you?”
“Surely, in the love of Mary Leslie you will find forgetfulness for all sorrow, or you do not half deserve so priceless a treasure,” said Robert, sadly.
“Mary Leslie!” Charlie stammered, blushed; then laughing off his confusion, said—“Yes, Robert, there will be a wedding, in the fall, at Longbrook—will you be my groomsman? I should have told you this long ago, but—” and he blushed again, and again hesitated.
“Say no more, my dear fellow, I know it all, and will come.”
And he did know all. Only that morning he had gone to Mary Leslie, and told her of his love, and how fondly he hoped it was returned. Tears came in Mary’s eyes while she listened; but she had plighted her faith to another—long ago had she given her heart to Charlie Morton; and, in gentle accents she told him so, while her blue eyes glistened as she saw the suffering she caused. Robert acquitted her of all blame.
“God bless you, Mary,” said he, and they parted friends; and from thenceforth he felt she must be as a sister to him, when his heart was overflowing with love toward her.
The autumn came. The wedding was over. Robert Dennyn grasped the hand of his friend with sincere and earnest wishes for his future happiness. How could he but be happy with that guileless, loving creature for his bride; and Robert was able to meet her, not only with calmness, but without a wish that it should be otherwise.
A new love was beginning to dawn upon him, and he only wondered that the spell of Annie Morton’s loveliness had not been upon him long before. Instead, as of old, leaving her to pursue her walks and rides alone, he was now ever by her side. Annie did not repulse him. A deep purpose was in her heart; to bring this man to her feet who had neglected her in girlhood, and then refuse him, became her determination; and in this she was prompted by her subtle friend.
Flora Leslie saw the devotion of Robert with a bitter heart. The pale student first introduced to our readers had become a man. His figure, then sharp and angular, was now tall and graceful. The light of genius shone in his dark eye, and spread itself over his face, now beautiful to look upon in its manliness. His success, since his examination, had been such as answered the expectations of his friends, who predicted for him a brilliant career. Flora saw that his wife would occupy an enviable position in society. Her quiet country home had no charms for her. Her restless spirit pined for the gay scenes of a city life. Robert Dennyn’s wife would have the position for which she longed; and to prevent his marriage with Annie Morton, and to win him to herself, became the fixed purpose of her soul.
She poured into the mind of Annie suspicions of his truth; told her of his love to her sister, and of the scene to which she had been a witness without their knowledge, when he confessed his love to Mary. This scene she exaggerated until Annie was maddened by the thought that the only being he had ever loved was Mary Leslie; and when Robert, during the merry bridal season, told her of the newborn love that had sprung up in his heart for her, she laughed his love to scorn, and drove him from her with cold and haughty words, though she loved Robert with all the deep love of which her heart was capable.
Robert remained several weeks at Longbrook. He did not choose that Annie should see that her scornful rejection had given him pain, and he unconsciously devoted himself to Flora, who saw that her triumph was approaching. When they met, Annie could not avoid displaying agitation; but she struggled hard with her feelings.
“He shall never know how much I have loved him,” the poor girl would say.
In this Flora encouraged her. “Where is your woman’s pride, that you will permit him to see your wretchedness. This cold, proud man is scarcely worth all this display of affection.”
Just at this time an event occurred which prolonged the visit of Robert. Mrs. Morton died. Robert could not leave his friends in their deep affliction. Poor Annie! her grief was wild and ungovernable. She grew pale and thin; never now, as of old, did the light flash in her eye, and the color mount to her cheek.
How Robert’s heart yearned to fold her in his arms and soothe her agony. He determined to make one last effort to win her love; but again he was repulsed. Her evil genius whispered that now he sought her in compassion; he had seen what Flora called her weakness, and having won from her a confession of her love, would despise her for it.
Robert left her presence convinced that she did not love him, that her conduct toward him had been all coquetry. His first acquaintance with her, when she was scarcely more than a child, recurred to him. He said to himself as then, “She has no heart.”
In this mood he returned to Longbrook. Entering the drawing-room, the first thing that attracted his attention was Flora. She was bending over a table with a small miniature open before her. Her hands were clasped, her whole features convulsed. As he approached she started with well-feigned surprise, stammered a few words, and left the room.
Robert was amazed—who could she love? This cold creature, who had never before displayed the least sign of feeling! From her manner, he inferred, that that love, whoever its object, must be hopeless. He advanced to the table, the picture upon which her eyes had been riveted in such agonized hopelessnesswas his own. Robert staggered back into the seat which Flora had just quitted. A cold damp moisture settled on his pale forehead, now paler than ever—the coldness settled on his heart.
“Here,” said he, “have I wasted all the love which I possessed upon one incapable of returning it, while this noble creature—It shall not be! she shall not suffer upon my account! I will drive from my thoughts the idol I have cherished, and replace it by the image of this beautiful girl.”
Without a moment’s hesitation he addressed a note to Flora, telling her that he had seen her agitation, and discovered the cause of it; frankly he admitted that he had not loved her—“But,” he wrote, “if you will accept a heart that has not been all yours, my life shall be spent in endeavoring to make you happy.”
Was Flora Leslie happy? Her end was well-nigh accomplished. She saw herself already mistress of a magnificent establishment, surrounded with splendor, receiving the homage due to her beauty; but happiness had fled from her bosom, sweet peace from her pillow, for she felt that she had trampled and crushed to the earth, the hopes of a breaking heart.
Charlie Morton was delighted when he learned the engagement. He hastened to tell Annie of it.
“I once hoped to have seen you his bride, Annie. I think he loved you; but if you did not love him, of course, you were right not to accept him.”
Annie listened calmly, and her good brother never knew that he was the messenger that brought darkness and despair to her soul. A new light broke upon her. Could her friend have been treacherous? But it could not be, Charlie must have been mistaken. She recalled Robert’s fond words, his despair, when he left her so short a time before.
“It cannot be,” she exclaimed; “he loves me still! I will not believe it! Even though it be true, he shall not marry this false girl! I will tell him all!” She wrote a hurried, passionate note to Robert, in which she confessed how much she loved him; there was no coldness now—all pride was gone—merged in the wild thought that she might yet recall him to her side.
Impatiently she waited for his answer, which she felt would be life or death to her. Who shall tell the agony of Robert Dennyn when he received the note, just as he was setting forth for his home in B.
“Once,” he wrote in answer, “Annie Morton knew that she might have asked any thing of me, even life itself—now I am irrevocably bound to another.”
Annie Morton received the note; she took it from the servant, as she stood trembling beside that same window where she sat when first presented to our readers; but how unlike the bright, beautiful girl who then sprang forth so gayly to meet her beloved father, and the strange youth who was to exert so great an influence upon her destiny. Beautiful she was still, for twenty summers had not yet passed over her head; and beauty cannot leave those she has loved so early—the gift will linger till many a year of suffering has passed over the heads of those upon whom she has bestowed the fairy talisman.
Annie read the note—a look of despair stole over her face—her eyes gleamed wildly. She crushed the note in her hand, then tore it into a thousand pieces. For a moment she stood gazing out. A carriage passed. She knew that Robert was in it—and as it rolled on, so passed away from Annie Morton all light and hope eternally. She left the spot where she had been standing, passed slowly up the broad staircase to her room, reached the bed, and consciousness left her. They found her there some hours after—but reason had left her. She had sown the wind in her folly, she was reaping the whirlwind in her misery.
Robert Dennyn and Flora Leslie were never married. The frantic words that fell from poor Annie Morton’s lips, during the first moments of her hopeless insanity, disclosed Flora’s treachery, and the engagement was broken.
Robert Dennyn went on his way, loved, honored, respected by all; but a lonely old age was his portion. He had too kind and good a heart to become a misanthrope; but the flowers of love in his heart were bruised and crushed—they bloomed no more for him.
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BY E. A. L.
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Adieu! Adieu? In silent tears we parted,To journey on, diverging, as two beams,That from the equatorial line have started,Bending their faces toward the earth’s extremes.All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep—Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,When thou didst steal from Beauty’s laughing throngTo meet me by the soft consenting moon,Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.
Adieu! Adieu? In silent tears we parted,To journey on, diverging, as two beams,That from the equatorial line have started,Bending their faces toward the earth’s extremes.All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep—Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,When thou didst steal from Beauty’s laughing throngTo meet me by the soft consenting moon,Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.
Adieu! Adieu? In silent tears we parted,
To journey on, diverging, as two beams,
That from the equatorial line have started,
Bending their faces toward the earth’s extremes.
All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;
All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;
All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,
Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep—
Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!
Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,
When thou didst steal from Beauty’s laughing throng
To meet me by the soft consenting moon,
Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,
And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.
THE RANGER’S CHASE.
A WESTERN STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812.
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BY J. L. M’CONNEL, AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON,” ETC.
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