“I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—They laugh in health, and future evils brave;Love has for them a gentle power to bless,While I shall moulder in my silent grave.God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”
“I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—They laugh in health, and future evils brave;Love has for them a gentle power to bless,While I shall moulder in my silent grave.God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”
“I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Love has for them a gentle power to bless,
While I shall moulder in my silent grave.
God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”
We had penetrated to the depth of the pine grove, and it was difficult to find our way out through the tangled undergrowth and the unequal hollows; but Malina had become thoughtful for others once more, and though excitement no longer made her own progress easy, she guarded me with double care; lifted me over the hollows and carried me in her arms when the thickets were too intricate or the ground very uneven. She kissed me as we reached a foot-path which led to our cottage, and, pointing to the door, would have left me to go home alone; but when she saw that I was troubled regarding my torn frock, kindness of heart prompted her to come back. She led me to the house, explained my misfortune, and went away. I sat down on the door-sill and watched her till she entered the portico of her mother’s dwelling, and when they remarked on her dejected looks, and questioned me of the cause, I answered that Malina was tired with walking so long in the woods, for it seemed as if the tears which I had seen her shed and the passionate words which she had uttered were a secret which I should do wrong to mention.
In about an hour Phebe Gray and our young minister stopped at the door-yard gate to inquire for Malina. I told them that she had gone home, and when Mr. Mosier lifted me in his arms, and, looking into my face, asked what I had been crying about, I turned my head away to evade his kiss and besought him to set me down. The contrast between his happy face, the deep and almost brilliant expression of joy which lighted it up, and the sorrowful look of poor Malina forced itself even on my childish mind. I felt that which I had no power to comprehend, and from that time never loved our minister nor Phebe Gray as I had loved them. They walked home very slowly, she leaning on his arm with an air of dependence and trustfulness which was full of feeling and feminine delicacy; he would check their progress every few moments to point out some familiar beauty in the landscape, as if they had never looked upon it before. They loitered by the rock spring, and along the river road, tranquil in their happiness, till the dusk almost concealed them as they entered Mrs. Gray’s house.
Almost every evening, for a week, our minister and Phebe Gray took their walk around the pine grove, and always alone. Malina was confined to the house. She had taken cold, Mrs. Gray said, and the night air was bad for her lungs. But often, when her sister was loitering along the river’s bank, happy in the wealth of her newly aroused affections, Malina might be seen at her chamber window, with her cheek languidly supported by a hand which was becoming thinner each day, and gazing earnestly after the two beings dearest to her on earth, but whose happiness she could not witness without emotions that were well nigh killing her. Her mother saw nothing of this. She only knew that Malina was quieter than usual and not very well, that her eyes were heavy and her step languid as she moved around the house. She did not see the heart struggling against itself, the stern principle which grew strong in the contest. She never dreamed of that desolate and lonely sensation which haunted her daughter’s pillow with watchfulness, and made her waking hours a season of trial cruel as the grave. She saw that Malina was strangely affected; true, she smiled still, but it was meekly, sadly, and it seemed as if the music of her laugh was exhausted forever; her eyes grew misty and sorrowful in their expression, and tears would sometimes fill them without apparent cause. Still it was gravely asserted that Malina had only a slight cold, a nervous attack which would go off in a day or two! But there was something in her illness which Phebe could not comprehend; a wish for solitude, and a strange nervous dread of any thing like intimate conversation with herself, which prevented an acknowledgment of her own deep causes of happiness. Her sensitive modesty made her desirous of some encouragement to unburden her heart of its wealth of hope even to her sister, and when she saw that Malina shunned her, that her eyes had a wandering and estranged look whenever they turned upon her face, she felt checked and almost repulsed in her confidence. If any thing could have disturbed the pure happiness which reigned in her bosom, it would have been this extraordinary mood in one who had from childhood shared every thought and wish almost as soon as it was formed. It had a power to disturb, though it could not entirely destroy the tranquillity of her mind.
“I will talk with her about it to-night,” murmured Phebe, as she opened her chamber door one evening, after a long conversation with Mr. Mosier in the portico. “I wish, though, she would ask some question, or even look curious to know what keeps us together so much; I little thought to have kept a secret from Malina so long.”
As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to sleep.
“Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you,” murmured the young girl, in a low, half timid whisper.
The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay, it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her sister’s pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before.
“Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of late?—speak to me, sister—you are in sorrow, and I have—oh how much—cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts from one another. Tell me what troubles you—for I cannot be entirely happy while you are ill and so sad.”
Malina redoubled her sobs, but amid the tumult of her grief she murmured, “Tell me all, Phebe, all you feel, all you wish; but I have no secrets, no sorrow. There is a little pain in my side, sometimes, and that makes me low spirited. I have always been so healthy, you know, that a little illness frightens me. Do not mind me, but talk of yourself. You are happy, Phebe,veryhappy! were not those your words? tell me all—I can be glad and rejoice in any thing that gives you pleasure—any thing on earth—if my heart were breaking. So let us talk it all over now, the room is so quiet and dark, and we shall neither of us get sleepy—do you think we shall, sister?—you may, but I have almost forgotten how to sleep,” and, as Malina ceased speaking, she stole an arm around her sister’s neck, and, choking back her sobs, composed herself to listen.
Phebe rose up in the bed, gathered the drapery around them, for the moonbeams were bright enough to reveal her blushes, and, sinking to her pillow, again murmured the story of her love, its return, and all the bright anticipations that made her future so beautiful. Malina nerved herself to listen; she uttered no word of distrust, and checked all manifestations of discontent by a strong effort of self-control, when all was told—when she was made certain that her sister and the only being she had ever regarded with more than a sister’s love, were to be married—that their wedding day was fixed, and, that the mother’s sanction had already been granted—she remained silent for a moment, and strove to gain the mastery over her feelings. When she spoke, her frame shook with the bitter emotions which could not be altogether subdued, but her voice was low and very calm. Mr. Mosier was poor, and Phebe not yet of age. If he were installed in the old meeting-house, they would be compelled to live with Mrs. Gray till something could be saved from his small salary to purchase a dwelling and begin housekeeping. This thought caused some anxiety to the engaged couple. The young clergyman had learned something of Mrs. Gray’s real character, and was reluctant to erect his domestic altar beneath her tyrannical auspices. Phebe, too, longed for a quiet home of her own, a happy, free home, where she might follow her own innocent impulses, unchecked and without fear.
“You shall have that home, my sister,” said Malina Gray, twining her arms around her companion, and kissing her with a gush of true affection; “there is the old parsonage house; you shall have that, and the money which dear minister Brown left to me; all are yours andhis. You will be happy there—very happy. I know he loved the old place. Now, good night, Phebe; let us go to sleep!” and with a low gasping sob, which was not the less painful that it gave no sound, Malina turned away her head.
Phebe was too disinterested and high-minded herself, for a thought of refusing Malina’s generosity.
“We shall, indeed, be happy,” she said; “you will come and live with us, and by the time you are married, we shall have saved enough to pay all the money back again. Youwilllive with us?”
Malina thought of the quiet grave-yard, which could be seen from the parsonage window, and answered—
“I shall want no other home.”
Phebe talked on, more cheerfully than usual, and when her sister did not answer, she thought her asleep; but Malina had fainted, and lay senseless upon her pillow.
It was soon rumored through the village that our new minister was engaged to Phebe Gray, and every body was delighted with the match. Phebe was just the creature for a clergyman’s wife, quiet and gentle, with manners that gave dignity to the softness of her disposition. In the general satisfaction which reigned in the village, Malina was quite overlooked. Her change of appearance was imputed to sadness at parting with her sister; and, at times, when the wedding was talked of in her presence, the rich color which burned over her cheeks, the brilliancy of her eyes, and the flashes of wild merriment that sprung to her lips, deceived the unobserving into a belief of her entire happiness. She spent much of her time at the old parsonage, superintending the arrangements of her sister’s home with a degree of taste and energy which surprised all who witnessed her exertions. The rooms were all newly arranged, delicate paper was purchased at New Haven for the walls, new stepping stones were laid at the front door, green blinds gave a look of elegance and seclusion to the windows; the profuse rose bushes and lilac trees were pruned, and a white picket-fence hedged in the little wilderness of flowers which blossomed in the front yard. The cabinet maker, on School Hill, was busy with the furniture, all of a superior kind. The carpet-weaver had borrowed twoquill-wheels, and all the spools, for a mile round, in order to expedite the progress of sixty yards of striped carpeting through his cumbrous loom. The house and its adornments were to be comfortable and elegant beyond any thing that had been known in our village for a long time; and all was Malina’s work. Her untiring assiduity created the little paradise which another was to enjoy. Her money purchased the books which filled the little study, whose window opened upon the most verdant corner of the orchard. Her trembling hands placed a new inlaid flute on the little table, and drew the easy chair close by, that the bridegroom might find every thing ready and home-like in his new dwelling.
One afternoon Malina was left alone; the workmen had departed to their suppers, and her task was finished for the day. She had just hung the pet robin in his old place by the dining-room window; he seemed to recognize the room, and flew about his cage, chirping and fluttering his wings, as if to thank her for bringing him home once more. It was the first hour of repose that Malina had known for many weeks, and now, that she had nothing more to perform, painful thoughts and regrets that would no longer be stifled, fell back upon her heart, and she was, oh, how desolate! There, in her blooming youth, she sat hopeless and weary of life—for what is life to a woman without affection? The heart was full of warm and generous feelings, burthened with a wealth of tenderness, and yet she had no future, nothing to hope for, nothing to dread; her destiny seemed consummated there and then. Youth is in itself so hopeful, that we can scarcely imagine a creature in the first bud of life yearning for the grave. But Malina was very sad. She looked through the open door into the orchard; the green old apple trees were heavy with blossoms, and through the garniture of thrifty leaves, and the rosy shower which blushed among them, a corner of the old meeting-house met her gaze—a portion of the grave-yard, and a new tomb-stone, which gleamed out from the young grass which had already started up from our minister’s death place. How green and quiet it looked—and oh, how earnestly Malina Gray longed to lie down in that still spot, and be at rest. Yet Malina was young, and no human being dreamed how wretched she was. The orchard was full of singing birds that day, and there had been a time when the gush of sweet sounds, that rose and swelled amid the foliage, would have made her heart leap, but now it filled her eyes with tears. The sunshine that played and quivered among the leaves—the wind that now and then gushed through the heavy boughs, scattering the grass with rosy flakes, and sighing as it swept off to the open plain—all seemed a mockery.
She was heart sick, and yearned to die. How cruel is that power by which a broken heart draws thoughts of sadness from the sweet and beautiful things of nature. Malina gazed through her tears at the change her own hands had wrought. The unseemly plantains had disappeared from the back door-step, and around the well-curb a bed of valley-lilies were just forming their pearly buds.
“They will be in blossom for Phebe’s hair,” murmured the young girl, “and for mine—for am I not to be bridemaid?”
With a mournful smile gleaming through her tears, Malina arose, and tying on her bonnet, left the house. She met Phebe and Mr. Mosier near the front gate. They were sauntering toward their new dwelling, tranquil and happy; to them, every thing whispered of joy; the fragrant orchard, the birds caroling within its shadows, and all the beautiful landscape were full of pleasant associations. Every hope and thought intheirbosoms blossomed in unison with nature.
How true it is that thought and feeling, like the sun, give color to outward things. The heart creates its own sunshine, or the cloud through which nature is revealed to it. Phebe Gray and her betrothed husband felt nothing but the sweet and the beautiful—their hearts were brimful of sunshine. But, alas, for Malina, she looked through the cloud.
Malina walked on. The two contented beings by the gate were happy enough without her. She strove to smile cheerfully as they spoke to her, and in a tone of forced playfulness forbade them entering the house till their wedding day.
Malina had gathered beneath the roof of that old parsonage house many luxuries almost unknown in the neighborhood; every thing calculated to gratify the fine taste of the young divine, or add to the comfort of her sister, had been unsparingly purchased, till her patrimony was almost exhausted. While this duty lasted, and the excitement of action was upon her, Malina sustained the burthen of her sorrows with an aching, but firm heart. She had taken no time for thought—scarcely for tears—but worked on, as if toiling through a feverish dream. Her cheeks were always flushed, and sometimes the music of her laugh rang loud and strangely through the bridal chamber which she was decorating; but the companions who assisted her were often startled by the reckless tone of her laugh; it was too absent and wild for happiness or merriment, entirely deficient in that low, rich melody, which had once made her voice so full of healthy joy. Yet all the neighbors were commenting on her generous conduct, and the brilliancy of her spirits; and it was often remarked that Malina Gray was never so fond of company, so careless in her mirth, or so startling in her wit, as she had been since the engagement of her sister, and since she had recovered from the slight cold which confined her to the house when that engagement was first whispered in the village.
To a heart capable of self-sacrifice, there is no feeling so lonely as that which follows exhausted power. No conviction, so keenly painful, as a knowledge that a beloved being, who has cost us the hopes of a life in resigning, can be happy without our aid—that we have nothing to render up—no aim for exertion—nothing to do but sit down and gaze upon the blank which existence has become. Her task was done. The excitement over, and then came to the heart of Malina Gray the toil and pain of concealed suffering; the aching restlessness which eats into the bud of human life. Once more it was rumored that she was ill, and, but for other and more absorbing subjects, Mrs. Gray might have been alarmed for the safety of her child; but she was so intent on other things, that the poor girl and her sufferings remained unheeded at home, save by the gentle Phebe and her betrothed husband.
When Mrs. Gray invited our young minister to reside at her house, it was probably with some vague expectation of the result which followed; and when her consent was desired to his union with Phebe, it was given promptly, and with evident satisfaction. But the young divine, though a meek and true Christian, had a dignity of character and opinion which sometimes proved at variance with the exactions of an ambitious and arbitrary matron. She had expected that he would continue to reside in her family, after the marriage, and looked forward to an extended dominion in her own household, and increased influence in the church, to be secured by this arrangement. But when he persisted in establishing an independent home, in managing his own salary, and becoming the sole protector of his future wife, whose state of moral servitude he could not witness without pain, Mrs. Gray’s enthusiasm in favor of the match gradually subsided, and when Malina insisted upon surrendering her newly acquired property to the young couple, and giving them the parsonage for a residence, the haughty woman became stern in her opposition, and while she took every means to render her own house an unpleasant residence for the parties, found some excuse to delay the wedding, from week to week, and at last refused to sanction it, till Mr. Mosier should be regularly installed in the pulpit, which he had now filled almost a year. Still Mrs. Gray was not a woman to talk openly of a change in her opinions. She was too calculating and subtle for useless words.
It had been settled in church council, that our young minister should be installed a few weeks after the time appointed for his marriage, and the young couple submitted to the imposed delay without a murmur. During these intervening weeks, and while Malina was occupied in embellishing the parsonage, Mrs. Gray was observed to be absent from home more frequently than usual. There was scarcely an influential church member near the old meeting-house, with whom she had not taken her knitting work, to spend a social afternoon; and several tea-parties were given in a quiet way at her own house, where she presided over the silver tea-urn, and old fashioned china, with more than ordinary condescension and dignity. But these were all impromptu meetings, and invariably took place when Mr. Mosier and Phebe were invited elsewhere.
The parents of our young minister were aged and very respectable farmers, residing in the vicinity of New Haven; but they were far from wealthy, and the farm they cultivated was not their own property. A week before the Sabbath appointed for the installation, Mr. Mosier accompanied his intended bride and her mother on a visit to his parents, where the haughty matron first learned that the man whom her daughter was about to marry had been acharity student. A benevolent society had paid his tuition at Yale College, at least that portion which he had been unable to meet by his own exertions. There had been no concealment of this truth on his part, for he had informed Phebe of the matter, and believed Mrs. Gray already aware of it. But Phebe, in the generous simplicity of her heart, never conceived it possible that the manner of his education could be deemed a cause of reproach, and it had left no impression on her mind; to her upright understanding there was no degradation in the thought that her lover had been acharity student.
Mrs. Gray gave no demonstration of the displeasure which filled her bosom on receiving this intelligence, but she quietly made an excuse for returning home with her daughter the next day, and, with every appearance of disinterested kindness, insisted that Mr. Mosier should not interrupt his visit to accompany them. “She could easily drive home,” she said, “the horse was gentle, and the roads perfectly good; her son-in-law must remain with his family; it would be cruel to force him away so abruptly.” Mrs. Gray said all this in her usual manner, shook hands with the old people, allowed the young divine to assist her into the chaise, and pretended to be very intently occupied in searching for something in her traveling basket, while he placed Phebe in her seat, and, with her slender hand clasped in his own, was whispering his farewell.
“Remember, and be in readiness next Sabbath,” he said, in a low voice, “tell Malina that she must take good care of you. I shall come on Saturday evening.”
Phebe murmured that she would be ready; but as she returned the farewell clasp of his hand, tears started to her eyes. She could not have told the reason, but a strange feeling of melancholy came over her, and it seemed as if the parting were forever. She looked back as the chaise drove away—he was standing on the door step by his parents, and the whole group waved their hands, smiling cheerfully, as they saw her turn for a last glance. But still her heart was heavy.
What passed between Mrs. Gray and her daughter during their drive home, we have no means of recording. But as Malina sat in her chamber window, and saw the chaise toiling up the hill that afternoon, her sister leaned forward, and she caught a glimpse of her face. It was white as marble, and stained with tears. Malina had been ill, but she started up, hastily girded her white morning wrapper to her waist, and went down. Mrs. Gray loitered to give some directions to the “hired man” about her horse, and Phebe was descending from the chaise without assistance. The moment her foot touched the earth, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Malina, who sprang forward, and flinging her arms around her, inquired eagerly and kindly what had befallen her.
Phebe attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and the color left them; she lifted her hand as if to grasp at something for support, and fainted in her sister’s arms.
“Mother, what is the matter?—where is Mr. Mosier?—tell me, pray tell me, what has made poor Phebe so ill, and why is she looking so wretched?”
Mrs. Gray turned, and saw that her child was senseless.
“Go and bring some water,” she said to the man, “carry that basket in with you, and make haste. Raise her head a little, you are crushing her bonnet,” she continued, turning to Malina; “there, take it off—she will come to, directly.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Gray calmly untied her daughter’s bonnet, and held it till the man came with water, while Malina stood trembling beneath the weight of the fainting girl, tenderly smoothing back the bright tresses from her forehead, and wildly kissing her pale lips, amid a thousand vague questions, which no one thought of answering.
Mrs. Gray took a pitcher of water from the man, who came panting from the well, and laving her hands in it, laid them on the pale face which Malina was still covering with tears and kisses. There was a faint struggle, a gasping sigh, and after a little Phebe began to murmur upon her sister’s bosom, like one just awaking from a dream. She shrunk from her mother, when that stubborn woman would have assisted her to rise, and clinging to Malina, walked with trembling steps toward the house.
“Oh, not there—up, to our own room, Malina,” said the poor girl, as her sister would have led her into the parlor. She was obliged to sit down more than once in ascending the stairs; and when at length Malina laid her upon the bed in their own dear room, she looked sadly around, and reaching up her arms, clasped the bending neck of her sister, and began to weep.
“I must never see him again—never—never,” she said, while her voice was broken with tears; “oh, Malina, did you think any human being could be so cruel?”
Malina started, and for one instant a flash of pleasure broke into her eyes. It was an unworthy feeling, and the next moment her face was flooded with shame that she had known it; and when she sat down by her sister, and besought her to say what had thus unnerved her, it was with as true sympathy as ever warmed the heart of a noble and self-sacrificing woman.
The cause of her sorrow was soon explained. Phebe had been commanded by her arbitrary mother to give up all thoughts of a union with Mr. Mosier. The gentle girl, for the first time in her life, had ventured to expostulate with her parent. The hope of her young life was at stake, and her heart trembled at the thought of separation from the man whom she had learned to love so devotedly. It was all in vain. Mrs. Gray was resolved, her prejudices were aroused, and to their gratification the happiness of her child was as dust.
Phebe had been educated with almost holy reverence for the authority of a parent, and though her heart broke, she dared not oppose her mother’s command. Her spirit withered beneath it, like a flower trodden to the earth, but she submitted. Not so Malina. Once more she ventured to reason with and oppose her mother, but only to call down resentment on her own head. This was no sudden resolution in Mrs. Gray; she had gone steadily to work, and planned out her own results. She was one of those cold pattern women who never know an impulse—whose virtues are polished, like marble, and as cold. She had paved her way quietly and well. The next morning, while her two children were sorrowing in their room, she was driving from house to house, exerting her influence over better hearts and weaker minds than her own, to the ruin of those who had loved and trusted her. And while Phebe lay upon a sick bed, a vestry council was called at the old meeting-house, and a decision passed by a majority of a single man, which deprived our young minister of the pulpit he was to have taken as his own the following Sabbath. Many good and just men of the congregation protested against this cruel and unjust act; but in churches, as in communities, the good and the merciful do not always constitute a majority.
The decision of this church meeting was forwarded to Mr. Mosier, and with it a letter from Mrs. Gray. The next morning he rode by our cottage on horseback, slowly, and as one in deep and morbid thought. He crossed the old bridge, and, as he did so, looked earnestly toward Mrs. Gray’s dwelling. He paused a moment at the end, and then rode at a brisker pace up the hill.
Phebe had been feverish, and very low, all that morning. Malina was watching by her side, and as she lay with her eyes closed in an imperfect slumber, the sound of a horse coming up the road made her start from the pillow, and while her cheek burned with a more feverish red, she fixed her eyes upon the open sash.
“It is he—I know it!” she said, clasping her hand, and looking into Malina’s face; “I will get up; mother cannot refuse to let me see him this once;” and with a kind of feverish joy the poor girl flung aside the bed clothes, and stepped out on the floor. With trembling and eager hands she gathered up her beautiful tresses, and began to braid them about her head, earnestly beseeching Malina all the time to assist her in getting ready to go down.
The kind hearted sister required no entreaty. She helped to array the invalid, though her own breath came gaspingly, and her hands shook like aspens in performing their duty.
“There, now—there, I am ready. See, do I look very ill, Malina?” said the excited young creature, turning to her sister; “it will make his heart ache to see how red my cheeks are. Do you think he will detect the fever?” and dashing some lavender over her handkerchief with an impetuosity all unlike her usual quiet movements, the half delirious girl took her sister’s arm, and was hurrying from the room. But the sound of a horse, rapidly passing the house, again came to her ear, and, with a faint exclamation, she sprung to the window just in time to catch a glimpse of her lover as he rode by. He lifted his face to the open sash, and she saw that it was very pale. He saw her, checked his horse an instant, half raised his hand, and then turning away with seeming effort, he rode slowly down the hill.
“He is gone,” exclaimed the unhappy girl, “gone without a word, almost without a look!”
And with a wavering step, Phebe Gray moved toward the bed, and amid the confusion of her feverish thoughts, she called on Malina to come and undo the bridal wreath which was girding her forehead so painfully.
But Malina was away. She had caught one glimpse at the pale face uplifted to her window, and with a wild impulse to see the minister once more, she flung a shawl over her head, and left the room. With the speed of an antelope, she darted through the garden, and forcing a passage through the brushwood which lined a hollow beyond, leaped down upon the natural basin of granite, where the rock-spring poured its waves, just as he had dismounted, and was proceeding to dip up the water in his palm, and bathe his forehead with it. He looked care-worn and pale, and the expression of his eyes, as he dropped the water from his hand, and turned them suddenly on the young girl, was that of a strong heart in ruins, and with its energies prostrated. He held forth his hand and tried to smile, but the attempt was a painful one, and died in a faint quiver of the lips.
Malina did not take his hand—she had no power—but stood with her left foot half buried in the damp moss which lined the spring, and the other planted hard against the granite basin; her hands clasped amid the drapery of her shawl, and her eyes lifted to his, glittering with excitement, and yet full of tears. The breath came pantingly through her unquiet lips, and in the struggle of her emotions, the words of greeting which she would have uttered, were broken into sobs.
“This is very kind of you, Miss Gray,” said the young clergyman, in a low voice, which had something of proud constraint in its tones; “I inquired for you at the house, but your mother informed me that you were engaged, and that your sister did not wish to see me.”
“Not wish to see you!” exclaimed Malina, suddenly finding voice; “Phebe—my poor Phebe—not wish to see you! Alas, for her, she cannot see any one; this cruel business has broken her heart. Oh, Mr. Mosier, why is it that such wrong can be done? why submit to it? what right has my mother thus to interfere, to the unhappiness of her child?”
Mr. Mosier did not reply, his thoughts were far away, and, though he gazed earnestly on the enthusiastic face lifted to his, Malina knew that he was not thinking of her. She felt humbled, and turned away her face as one who had been rebuked. So she stood gazing, with a look of patient humility, on the waters sparkling in the basin at her feet, till at last he aroused himself and spoke. But she, who felt every word he uttered as if it were a tone of music, had no share in his speech or his thoughts. Things all too precious for her were rendered to another, and she must endure the pain.
“So she was ill, andcouldnot come. Yet she knew I was there, and sat in the room all the time. I saw her at the window, and she looked—tell me, Malina, my sweet, kind sister,” he added, suddenly, “did she wish to see me?—would she come for a moment here or into the garden?”
The young man looked anxious, and his cheek flushed brilliantly as he spoke, for the moment his well regulated mind had lost its balance, and the passions of earth were strong within him. It was but for a moment; before Malina had time to reply, the flush died from his face.
“No,” he added, with a sorrowful motion of the head, “it is wrong to ask, foolish to desire an interview—comfort her, Malina, say that which I cannot have permission to utter in her presence; say how deeply, how earnestly I have loved her, how weary I am of the world, how lonely my heart is now—say to her—alas! what message have I to send—I, who can scarcely turn my face heavenward, the clouds are so dark that lie heaped before me!”
These words were uttered in a tone of such despondency that Malina once more lifted her eyes, and would have spoken words of encouragement which she was far from feeling, for her own wretchedness seemed completed in that of the beings she most loved; but, while her lips were parted, he made a sudden effort at composure, and saying that all might yet be well, in a broken and hurried voice, he drew Malina toward him and stooped to press his lips to her forehead, without seeming conscious of the act—but she was all too conscious, the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she trembled in his arms like a frightened child. He saw it not, for to his thought she was a sister only, and though his lips had pressed her forehead for the first time, he did not think of it, but mounted his horse and rode away before she had power to utter a word or make a gesture to detain him.
He was gone forever, and she was alone—alone! how often is that word misapplied; the loving and the loved are never alone—but so it was with Malina Gray.
——
“In the cold, damp earth we laid her,When the forest cast its leaf,And we sighed, that one so beautifulShould have a lot so brief.”
“In the cold, damp earth we laid her,When the forest cast its leaf,And we sighed, that one so beautifulShould have a lot so brief.”
“In the cold, damp earth we laid her,
When the forest cast its leaf,
And we sighed, that one so beautiful
Should have a lot so brief.”
“So, Madam, you refuse—my boy is dying, and he yearns to look once more on the poor girl who would have been his wife in a single week.”
It was but a few days after her interview with Mr. Mosier, that Malina heard these words issue from her mother’s parlor, as she was passing through the hall, from the chamber where she had just left Phebe striving to beguile her weary thoughts with a book. The door was ajar, and there was a power in the words which made her start and listen. It was a deep, manly voice, that of an aged person, but entreaty, tenderness and something almost like resentment, combined to render it startling and pathetic. Malina held her breath, and, drawing a step nearer, looked through the door.
An aged man was standing before her mother, he held a cane without resting on it, and a broad brimmed hat was in his left hand; firm and erect he stood in the quiet room, the gray hair sweeping back from his forehead, and his plain dress giving him the look of a patriarch; his face was agitated, but so full of benevolence that Malina loved the old man before she guessed who he was. Violent passions could seldom have passed over those mild features, still they were disturbed as he spoke, and the good old man was evidently struggling with strong and bitter emotions. There was something in the grasp of his hand on the cane, and in his dignified bearing, which awed the sympathy it excited.
Mrs. Gray was sitting in her easy chair, looking rather earnestly at the old man. She had been engaged in knitting when he entered, but had laid the work on a little round stand by her side, and seemed rather anxious to take it up again; but she was too punctilious for that, and very blandly requested her visitor to resume the seat from which he had risen. “No, I have not time to sit down, every minute is worth years to me now—my only son is dying, and I am absent from his side.” The old man now paused, his chin began to quiver, and turning away his face, he strove to conceal the tears that broke into his eyes from the calm and heartless woman who sat gazing upon him.
“Madam,” he said, but his voice was broken, and his hand shook till the hat fell from his grasp to the floor. “Madam, I beseech you, think better of this! My boy cannot live forty-eight hours; the doctors told me so before I left him. But I came from his bed side, when each lost moment was as a drop of blood wrung from my heart, thinking that you might refuse any messenger but his father. You are a woman and should feel for him, and here I gave up five whole hours of this precious time that he might look on the face of that poor girl before he dies; and his mother—you have had children sleeping against your heart, madam—do you think his mother would not find it a comfort if the soul of her only child could go up to heaven from her bosom where he nestled in his first infancy? Do you think she has no woman’s yearning wish for the last embrace, the last endearing word? She loves the boy better than her own soul, and he is dying before her eyes—but she gave him up. When she saw that he moaned for the presence of one who had become dearer than his own mother, she bade me come hither and bring the girl that her first born might die in the arms he loved best—think, woman, every moment I spend in talking here is wrung from the death bed of a child that was all on earth that two old people had to love and hope for. I must depart, but lethergo with me.”
The old man unconsciously clasped his hands as he spoke, and tears fell like rain over his withered cheeks.
Mrs. Gray glanced at him with something of wonder in her face, and extending out her hand, took up the knitting work as if to end the conference.
“And can you still refuse!” exclaimed the old man.
“It would not be proper,” replied Mrs. Gray, quietly unscrewing the top of her silver knitting case, “besides, Phebe is not well enough to ride so far even if she desired it, and the fever may be contagious.”
“If I could talk with the young lady I am sure shewoulddesire it,” said the old man, almost humbly, for his heart grew heavy at the thought of returning to the death bed of his son with his errand unaccomplished. “Leave it to her good feelings, madam, and if they plead against me I will depart and trouble you no more.”
Neither the pleading voice, nor the agony of over-wrought feelings with which the unhappy father spoke, reached the heart of Mrs. Gray. While the old man stood before her, trembling beneath the burden of his grief, she placed her needle in its sheath, twisted the worsted over her finger, and went through the intricacies of a seam stitch before even her eyes were lifted toward him.
“You must recollect, Mr. Mosier,” she said, “Phebe is not at present engaged to your son, and even if she were, I do not think it would be exactly correct for her to visit him. I am sorry for the young gentleman, very; I will see that our new minister mentions his case in prayer next Sabbath; we all feel for him—but he would not be advised. Indeed—”
Here Mrs. Gray dropped a stitch, and paused while it was looped up again. When she raised her eyes, the face of her auditor was stern, and as calm as her own. The tears had dropped from his cheek, his hands were both grasping the head of his cane, and if that pharisaical woman could have shrunk from any thing, the solemn and reproving eyes which dwelt on her face would have kindled the most generous blood of her heart into blushes of shame. But it is hard to wring the die of shame from a self-righteous heart. Mrs. Gray believed herself to be acting in a most Christian-like spirit, in still retaining the heartless civility of her manner toward the poor old man whom her own cruelty had bereaved. Her heart was entombed in the self-conceit of its own sanctity, like dust in the marble of a sarcophagus.
“Woman,” said the old man, and this time his voice was firm, and thrillingly solemn; “you have no heart. You are a mother, and should know how much worse than death it is to see the child whom you have loved and cherished, and woven in your very heart-strings, perishing before your eyes. Oh, how proud we were of that boy! how his poor mother loved him! what a day it was when she and I walked up the broad aisle of that old meeting-house yonder, and saw him standing in the pulpit—a minister of the gospel. We had prayed for that sight—toiled and slaved for it—and were so happy—so very happy. He is on his death bed now. Woman,youhave sent him there—you, who were a mother, thought nothing of smiting a sister woman through the heart—you, a professor of religion, can do murder more subtle and cruel than that which cleaves a man through the brain, and look calm and speak softly, nay, smilingly refuse the last dying request of your victim. Woman, I will not curse you—that right rests with the high God of Heaven, who looketh down upon the murder you have done, not as man looketh, not as the law looketh—beforehim, shall you be arraigned, and that cold heart shall be made to shudder at the depth of its own crime—hewill be thine accuser—he, thy victim, who was so gentle, so sweet tempered, that thoughts of revenge never entered his heart. In a few short hours he will stand in the broad light of Heaven, sent there untimely; and even as Abel bear witness against his brother, he shall bear witness against thee! The Almighty may not place his mark upon thy brow—the law may not brand thee—but one who can wring the life from a human being by silent and moral cruelty, is not less a murderer than the man who smites his brother to the heart with a poniard!”
Mrs. Gray was at length moved—for the solemn and stern energy of that pale old man might have startled the dead from their graves—the knitting dropped from her hands, her eyes darkled with terror, and her face turned white as a corpse beneath the snowy lace and the black and false hair that shaded it. She would have spoken, but the pallid lips trembled without uttering a sound, while the hands which rested in her lap began to shiver, as she strove to lift them and motion him away.
The old man left her where she sat, and went into the hall; but his feelings had been too cruelly outraged, and there his strength gave way; he sunk helplessly to a settee, and covering his face with his hands, wept like a child.
Malina had left the hall and stood in her sister’s chamber. Phebe was dressed and seated by the window, pondering over the pages of a book, though she had not turned a leaf that day. She did not raise her eyes when the door opened, but seemed unconscious of a second person.
“Come with me,” said Malina, grasping the hand which lay in her sister’s lap, with fingers that clung to it like ice. “Come!”
There was something in Malina’s face that frightened her companion from the apathy that had for days settled on her spirits. She arose, without a word, and was led down stairs, and into the hall. It was empty. Old Mr. Mosier had departed, and the front door was left open behind him.
“Phebe,” said Malina Gray, in a faint whisper, “heis dying, and has sent for you—his father sat there, but a moment since. Our mother has refused that you should see him. He is pining to die with his head against your heart. Sister, will you go?”
“I will plead with her—kneel to her,” said Phebe Gray, and opening the parlor door, she entered alone.
Malina paused an instant, and turning through a side door, passed across a small clover lot, toward the stables. A horse stood cropping the white blossoms in a corner of the field. She looked around for some one to help her, but the men were all away on the upper farm—so she drew toward the gentle animal, and beckoning with her hand, uttered a few coaxing words, and persuaded him toward the stables. He bent his neck while her trembling hands placed the bit in his mouth, which was yet half full of fragrant grass, and turned his head to watch her, as she girded the saddle to his back. When she tied him to the garden fence, and entered the house again, he followed her with his eyes, and, with a short neigh, fell to tearing with his mouth the honeysuckle vines that crept along the fence.
As Malina entered the hall she saw Phebe gliding up stairs toward their room; she was walking feebly, and held by the bannister as she went. When the sisters stood within the chamber together, Phebe sunk to a chair, while Malina looked earnestly in her face, and uttered a single sentence—
“Will you go?”
“She has forbidden it,” replied Phebe, faintly.
“Will you go?” said Malina, once more.
“I dare not disobey her!” Phebe spoke with difficulty, and clasping both hands over her face, moaned as if in pain, for the struggle within her heart was terrible.
When Phebe became sufficiently composed to look up, her sister was gone. She was glad to be alone, and creeping toward the bed, knelt down and prayed.
Malina had snatched a bonnet and shawl from the bed while her sister’s face was concealed, and gliding down stairs into the open air, she mounted the horse and rode away.
It was sunset as the poor girl came slowly over the old bridge, and rode by our house. I was playing in the front yard, and ran out to meet her—but all at once she drew the bridle tight, and the spirited horse sprung forward on the way before my childish voice could be heard. The gloom of coming night lay heavily amid the pine boughs, as the young girl rode under them, and when she dashed up the road, and disappeared over Fall’s Hill, both horse and rider were for one moment displayed in bold relief against a pile of crimson and golden clouds which lay heaped in the horizon. When she disappeared, it seemed, to my infant fancy, as if the gates of heaven had unfolded to receive her.
The night came on clear, and lighted both by moon and stars, the solitary traveler still kept the road, accompanied only by her spirited animal, and the shadow which seemed gliding along the dewy green-sward by her side, like a silent guardian. It was late in the evening when the horse checked himself at the fence before a red farm-house, with a sloping roof, and two large trees embowering it with foliage.
It seemed like supernatural instinct in the animal, for he had only been there once before, and Malina, in the tumult of her thoughts, scarcely knew where she wished to stop. There was a light twinkling through the thick leaves of a tree bough that dropped over one of the front windows, but it was very faint, and seemed forcing itself through the folds of a window curtain. Malina grasped the horn of her saddle, and dropping feebly down to the green-sward, moved toward the house. There was a foot-path which led to the front door—she followed this, and found herself in a dark entry, with a narrow stream of light falling through the entrance to an inner room. The sound of a faint, wandering voice, and of smothered sobs, stole from the room. Malina breathed heavily as she touched the door, and glided into the room. It was indeed the chamber of death. A solitary candle burned on the table, amid glasses and vials, sending forth just sufficient light to reveal an old fashioned tent bed, with its white drapery sweeping to the floor, and its heavy fringes hanging motionless, as if they had been cut from marble. At the foot of this bed knelt an old man; his hands were clasped beneath his face, and the long gray hair swept thickly over them, as he prayed. A female stood between Malina and the bed; she was bending over the pillows which were heaped high upon it, and though the poor girl could not see her face, shefeltthat it washismother. She moved, and the sound of her footstep on the sanded floor made the old lady lift her head, and Malina saw his face once more. Oh, how white and changed it was! The damp, black hair fell heavily over his forehead, shadows lay about the closed eyelids, and there was an expression about the mouth, which was not a smile, and yet seemed deathly and sweet. His head was raised high with pillows, and though he seemed to sleep, the breath came painfully from his lips, and with a struggle that constantly disturbed the linen which lay in waves across his breast.
Malina stood upright in the dim light, motionless as a thing of marble, her eyes fixed on the dying man, and unconscious, in the force of her grief, that to all in the room, save him who saw her not, she was a stranger, and had intruded into the sanctuary of private grief.
It mattered not; Malina’s step had been mistaken for that of a woman from the kitchen, and no one knew that the wretched young creature was there.
There was a motion of the bed clothes, a faint murmur, and the dying man opened his eyes—those large, eloquent eyes that Malina had thought upon so often, and so thrillingly. There was a mist upon them now, but through it broke a soft and strange light, heavenly and beautiful. The old lady bent her ear, and listened to the faint murmur, which seemed dying on his lips.
“My father—when will he come back?—it is late!”
The sound was very faint, but the old man had heard it amid the strong agony of his prayer. He arose, and moving round the bed, bent over his son. A light, almost preternatural, came to the eyes of that dying man, and with a sudden effort he found voice to speak.
“My father,” he said, “thank God—you have returned in time. Where is she?”
“My son,” said the old man, in a voice which he vainly strove to render calm, “in a little time she will meet you in heaven—but she is not here.”
The invalid had turned his head upon the pillow, with a look of touching eagerness; but it fell back—his eyes closed faintly, and after gasping once or twice, he lay motionless, save the lips, which gave forth broken but beautiful fragments of speech, such as came uppermost in his pure, but wandering mind, for he was delirious now. The last vibrations of his soul were disturbed by disappointment in his sole earthly wish. In the broken murmurs that fell from his lips, Malina heard her own name, and it unlocked the ice which seemed closing round her heart. With a sob that broke to her lips amid a gush of tears, she sprung toward the bed, and falling upon her knees, clasped the pale hand which fell over the bed, and pressed her quivering lips repeatedly upon it, while her voice mingled with the choking grief that shook her whole frame.
“Forgive me! oh, let me stay!” she said, lifting her face to the old woman, but still nervously grasping the dying man’s hand; “I loved him better than she did—better than anybody could—better than my own soul! Let me stay, and die with him! No one askedmeto come, but I am here. You will not send me away?”
The voice of Malina Gray was soft and low, like that of her sister; and though broken with grief, it is probable that the dying man was bewildered by the sound. He started from the pillow—a glorious lustre broke through the mist which whelmed his eyes, and as Malina sprang to her feet, his face fell upon her shoulder, and his cold cheek lay against hers. It was very strange—Malina knew that he was dying, but a flash of wild joy thrilled through her heart, and for the first time since she had heard of his illness, a faint color broke into the cheek which pressed his. She laid him gently upon the pillow, and parting the damp hair from his forehead, pressed her lips tremblingly upon it, while her sobs filled the chamber. When the dying man felt the touch of her quivering mouth, a smile stole over his face—again the misty eyes were unclosed, and feebly lifting his arm, he wound it over her neck and drew her to his bosom, while the unformed words he would have spoken were lost amid the dying music of his soul. A moment, and his arm fell softly from Malina’s neck. The young creature lifted her face from his bosom, and looking at his mother, murmured—
“He lovedherliving—but is he not mine in death?—mine, for ever and ever!”
She turned to lay her face near his heart once more, but there was no color in her lips then. She started, and, with a cold shudder, bent her cheek slowly to his bosom—it pressed heavily, and more heavily, on the cold clay—her limbs relaxed, and she sunk across the bed, senseless as the beautiful corpse which cumbered it.
The gloom of death had shadowed that farm-house two days, and now it was desolate. The kind neighbors who had walked in and out, ministering to grief, no longer broke the solemn hush which pervaded the dwelling. The departed was indeed the departed—for they had borne him over his father’s threshold, and laid him down to sleep in the dark earth. Malina followed him to the grave. She was a stranger, but no one asked why she stood among the mourners, and without their sable vestments. When the aged mother bent over the coffin, and looked upon the dead, the young girl drew to her side, and fixed her eyes upon the cold still face which had never met her glance coldly before. The mother wept, but Malina could not shed a tear, although the solemn and hushed grief upon her face awed even village curiosity.
And now they were alone—the parents, and that poor girl. She was upon her knees—her head was bent, and its redundant hair veiled her face, while the broken hearted young creature begged a blessing fromhis motherbefore she went away. The sorrowing woman laid her hands upon the bright tresses which flowed over her lap for a moment, then lifting the suppliant to her bosom, wept over her.
Mr. Mosier, when he heard the sobs of his wife, arose, and clasping his hands over Malina’s head, silently besought a blessing on her. She drew back, and he saw that her face was still calm; so taking her hands in his, he began to persuade and reason with her. She listened, and gazed earnestly in his face as he spoke. At last, tears started to her eyes, and when the old man saw this, big drops began to stream down his own cheek, and the clasp of his hand grew tremulous, as he led her from the room.
As the old man placed Malina in her saddle, he glanced in her face, and a misgiving came to his heart. He questioned himself if it was safe to trust her to the road without protection; but when he proposed accompanying her part of the way, at least, she pleaded against it with startling eagerness, and, thinking of his afflicted wife, he allowed her to depart.
Malina had a secret wish at her heart, which caused it to pant for solitude. Her road lay close by the grave-yard where our young minister was buried, and she yearned to stand once more by his death place, and alone. When she reached the sacred place, she looked to the right and left, timidly, as if her errand had been a wrong one. Her nerves were strung to their utmost tension, and she was morbidly fearful of being seen—every thing was solitary and quiet; the long grass bending to the breeze, as it sighed over the graves, and the soft rustling sound which whispered amid the leaves of a clump of weeping willows, that curtained an entire household that had gone down to sleep together, were all the sounds that fell upon her ear. She tied the horse to the fence, and passing forward tohisgrave, sat upon a pile of sods that had been left by the sexton. She neither wept nor moved—but there she remained in the bright sunshine, gazing hour after hour on a tuft of tiny white blossoms, which sprung up from a sod which they had placed just over his heart. Now and then, she twined her hands together as they reposed in her lap—and as the sunshine went suddenly away, and heavy black clouds rolled over the sky, with the lightning playing amid their ragged folds, she smiled, and drew closer to the grave.
At last, a roar of thunder burst from the clouds, big drops of rain came down upon the graves, and bent the willows more droopingly to the earth.
Malina lifted her eyes upward with a wild and startled look, then turning them on the willows which sheltered that single family, and on the congregation of graves which lay around her, all covered with long grass, she rested them on the mound at her feet, murmuring—
“Have all a covering from the cold rain, but thee?”
As she spoke, Malina took off her shawl, and spreading it over the newly made grave, cast herself upon it, and for the first time since she felt his heart stop beating beneath hers, moaned and sobbed as if her very life were going from her.
In a few moments the garments of our poor mourner were saturated with rain—still she clung closer to the grave, murmuring words of wild endearment to the unconscious inmate, and congratulating herself, with strange earnestness, that she was still able to shield his bosom from the storm.
At last, the clouds rolled away, and though the sun was just going down, his last fires kindled a rainbow amid the water drops that yet filled the air. Malina lifted her head, and gazed upward—a smile parted her lips when she saw the rainbow, and pressing her cheek upon the grave again, she whispered—
“The angels have built thee a bridge, love!”
The sun went down, and Malina arose from the grave, shivering from head to foot. She gazed around, and was turning her eyes with a wistful look on her late resting place, as if she meditated casting herself down again, when a low neigh from the horse which still remained by the fence, aroused her, and leaving the shawl behind, she hurried toward the patient animal, and mounting him, rode away.
Malina must have wandered from the usual road, in the strange abstraction of her mind, for it was midnight when she came opposite the old meeting-house. Prompted, doubtless, by some vague fear of returning home, or perhaps allured to pause by the open gate, the weary and half bewildered girl turned her horse, and riding close to the front door of the parsonage house, dismounted, and allowed him to wander amid the flower beds and rose bushes which filled the yard. Thrusting her hand beneath the door sill, she took out a key, and fitted it to the lock, but with difficulty, for her hands trembled; and though hot flushes every moment darted through her frame, she was shivering with cold. She went up stairs, holding feebly by the balusters, and guided by the moonlight, which fell from a window overhead, she entered a room—that which she had decorated as the bridal chamber of her sister Phebe, and of the departed. A clear moonlight came through the windows, and lay like flags of silver amid the black shadows which filled the apartment. Every thing was still and motionless; not a breath stirred the bridal ribands with which the muslin curtains were looped back. The bed lay with the moonlight sleeping amid its pillows, like a snow drift, when the air is calm; and the atmosphere was impregnated by the dead flowers which had been profusely lavished on the toilet, and now hung crisp and withered in their vases. Malina was very ill, and a fever burned through her veins—her limbs were almost powerless, and her forehead seemed girdled with iron. Still was she sensible of surrounding things, and her heart swelled with the recollections which thronged on her aching brain. She unfastened her damp dress, and with difficulty crept into bed.
“Poor, poor Phebe,” she murmured, gathering the white counterpane over her shivering form, “how little she thinks I am here—how she would pity me, so ill, and all alone. Alas, how sad a thing this trouble is—I have not thought of Phebe these many long days—I wonder if she is ill as I am—if her head is so hot, and her limbs chilled, till they shake so. This is a cold bed—very, very cold—but his is colder still. Oh, my God!he is dead—and I have seen his grave. I—but it was not me—no—he loved my sister. But I had his dying kiss! It was the last throb of his heart that beat against mine, and chilled me so. That was it—that was it!”
With such fragments of speech, and moans of pain, Malina verged into the delirium of a raging fever. At times she would weep, and call for her sister, in tones of yearning tenderness—then notes of music would break from her lips, and ring through every corner of the solitary house, as if a prisoned angel were pleading for release there. When the fever came on, fierce and strong, she began to ask for water—to weep, and wring her hands, while she entreated some visionary being to leave her in the grave-yard wherehewas; where showers were continually falling and weaving rainbows around those who thirsted for rest or drink; and so her voice of suffering rose and swelled through the lone building all night. When the day dawned, she was still awake and delirious; tears stood on her crimson cheeks, and entreaties for water still rose to her parched lips.
It came at last—she knew not how it was, but a pale, sweet face bent over her, a soft voice was speaking comfort, and a glass of water cooler and more refreshing than she had ever tasted before was held to her lips. She was just conscious enough to think that it was Phebe who ministered to her wants, or some good seraph that looked as sweetly sad and kind. Then she sunk to sleep, and it was many weeks before she awoke from the dream that followed.
It was Phebe Gray who stood by the sick bed of the sufferer. A villager had seen Mrs. Gray’s horse that morning, bridled and with his saddle on, trampling among the flower beds and feasting upon the choice rose bushes which grew in the parsonage yard—he went in to secure the animal and was terrified by the voice of suffering which issued from the house. He went up stairs, saw the delirious young creature who occupied the bridal chamber, and hastened to inform Mrs. Gray—but Phebe had struggled with her own sufferings and stood over Malina’s sick bed many hours before the mother had arranged her dress and prepared herself to pass through the village with that degree of propriety which she considered due to her character.
Malina lay many weeks before the fever left her; then a cough set in and a hectic spot settled and burned into her thin cheeks. The poor girl smiled a sad quiet smile, when she heard them say each evening, that a little over exertion had excited her, that she had taken a slight cold which in the turn of her disease was felt more than usual. Still the cough deepened, the crimson spot burned on, and she knew that the life which kindled would soon be exhausted. And so it was, that autumn when the woods were all flushed with those dyes which an early frost brings to the foliage, when the nuts were ripe and the brown leaves fell in showers over the crisp moss, Malina Gray was extended beneath the snowy drapery which her own hands had gathered above the bridal bed. White ribands were still knotted amid the folds which seemed brooding over her like a cloud, and a few crimson fall flowers lay scattered upon the pillow, some of them so close to the marble cheek that a faint tinge was coldly reflected there. For two whole nights Phebe watched the beautiful clay reposing in the dim light upon her own bridal bed, but scarcely more changed than her own sweet self. Malina was the happiest, her heart had broken amid the struggle of its suffering, but that of the watcher lay crushed and withering in her young bosom. She felt that life was yet strong within her; but hope, love, every thing that makes life pleasant to a woman, had departed. She was still good, still pure almost as an angel, but the sad smile which settled on her lips never deepened to a laugh again, and no human being ever saw a tear in her changeless and sorrowful eyes.
They laid Malina Gray down to sleep beside old minister Brown—in the very spot she had yearned to repose in. A large circle of neighbors gathered around the grave, some in tears, and all very sorrowful. Mrs. Gray stood by the coffin; her mourning was arranged with great care, and a veil of new crape, deeply hemmed, fell decorously over her face, and the white handkerchief, with which she concealed those maternal tears proper for a mother, whose duty it was to be resigned under any dispensation. But Phebe stood silent and motionless; no handkerchief was lifted to her eyes, and the face which gleamed beneath the crape veil, was profoundly calm, almost as that of the corpse.
We had a new minister, on trial, of Mrs. Gray’s choosing, who performed the funeral service, and when all was over, returned home with the mourners; when they knelt in the little parlor that night, he prayed earnestly, and with genuine tears, for the bereaved mother; he besought the Lord to visit, with consolation, one who was a mother in Israel, a bright and shining ornament in the Christian church; a woman who had brought up her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord; whose path was growing brighter and brighter to the perfect day when she would reap a rich reward in heaven.
Amid a few natural sobs which awoke in the widow’s heart, she murmured, “Amen,” satisfied that her life had been one of perfect rectitude, and that in all things she had been a pattern mother, and an ornament to the church, which ought to be her consolation under any bereavement.
The new minister was a very conscientious man, but practical in all his ideas; he was honest in the high opinion which he entertained of Mrs. Gray, and not sufficiently sensitive to shrink from offering his hand to Phebe, when that lady delicately gave him to understand that the step would be satisfactory to herself. The old parsonage house was still empty, and Phebe’s inheritance. He was an installed pastor, and Miss Gray’s engagement to his predecessor never entered his mind as an objection.
Phebe betrayed no emotion when the proposal was made. She simply declined it, without giving a reason; and when he married another person, and would have rented the parsonage, she said with decision—“It must remain as my sister left it!”
And when Mrs. Gray would have remonstrated, she answered, still with firmness—
“I am of age, mother, but still will obey you in all things else. Act as you like regarding the other property—but no stranger shall ever live in the parsonage. Poor Malina furnished it forhim, and for me. She died there, and so will I!”
It may be so, for the old house is still uninhabited. Every thing remains as Malina left it; the bridal chamber, the easy chair, and the flute upon the table; time has made little change in those silent apartments, for every week Phebe, who has become a calm and sorrowful old maid, goes up to the house alone, and remains there for many hours; sometimes seated at the study table, and gazing at a grave which may be seen through the trees. Once, a child gathering valley lilies, beneath the window, saw her standing at the open sash, with her sad eyes turned toward the grave-yard. She was talking to herself—the child dropped his flowers and listened, for there was something so mournful in her voice, that his little heart thrilled to the sound.
“They tell me that he wearied himself, and died of fever,” she said; “and that thou, my sister, perished naturally, and as we all must. Alas, if I could but think so. Why not have told me how he was beloved before it was too late? I would have given him up—and while you were happy, this heart had not become so palsied and feelingless. Alas, it was well that thy heartcouldbreak, my poor, poor Malina!”