THE BROKEN REED.
———
BY S. S. HORNOR.
———
Many a maiden, if she knewThe sorrows of an injured wife,Would robe herself in sable hueWhen entering on married life.Oh, man! be careful how you dealWith one so tender and so pure;Remember that a wife can feelA wound for which there is no cure.Like to the fond, confiding dove,Howe’er so gay and blithe before,Repel the promptings of her love,Her spirits sink to rise no more.Teach her but that she loves in vainAnd life becomes a worthless part;The streams of love rush back againAnd choke the fountains of the heart.Though she may flourish for awhile,The counterfeit of what she’s been.The secret sadness of her smileTells, but too plainly, death’s within.’Twere better she were never bornThan feel the shaft of anger dealt;The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,That many a suff’ring wife has felt.
Many a maiden, if she knewThe sorrows of an injured wife,Would robe herself in sable hueWhen entering on married life.Oh, man! be careful how you dealWith one so tender and so pure;Remember that a wife can feelA wound for which there is no cure.Like to the fond, confiding dove,Howe’er so gay and blithe before,Repel the promptings of her love,Her spirits sink to rise no more.Teach her but that she loves in vainAnd life becomes a worthless part;The streams of love rush back againAnd choke the fountains of the heart.Though she may flourish for awhile,The counterfeit of what she’s been.The secret sadness of her smileTells, but too plainly, death’s within.’Twere better she were never bornThan feel the shaft of anger dealt;The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,That many a suff’ring wife has felt.
Many a maiden, if she knewThe sorrows of an injured wife,Would robe herself in sable hueWhen entering on married life.
Many a maiden, if she knew
The sorrows of an injured wife,
Would robe herself in sable hue
When entering on married life.
Oh, man! be careful how you dealWith one so tender and so pure;Remember that a wife can feelA wound for which there is no cure.
Oh, man! be careful how you deal
With one so tender and so pure;
Remember that a wife can feel
A wound for which there is no cure.
Like to the fond, confiding dove,Howe’er so gay and blithe before,Repel the promptings of her love,Her spirits sink to rise no more.
Like to the fond, confiding dove,
Howe’er so gay and blithe before,
Repel the promptings of her love,
Her spirits sink to rise no more.
Teach her but that she loves in vainAnd life becomes a worthless part;The streams of love rush back againAnd choke the fountains of the heart.
Teach her but that she loves in vain
And life becomes a worthless part;
The streams of love rush back again
And choke the fountains of the heart.
Though she may flourish for awhile,The counterfeit of what she’s been.The secret sadness of her smileTells, but too plainly, death’s within.
Though she may flourish for awhile,
The counterfeit of what she’s been.
The secret sadness of her smile
Tells, but too plainly, death’s within.
’Twere better she were never bornThan feel the shaft of anger dealt;The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,That many a suff’ring wife has felt.
’Twere better she were never born
Than feel the shaft of anger dealt;
The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,
That many a suff’ring wife has felt.
Remember you’re her only stay;And every slight and insult shownWill fester unto deep decay,Until the grave shall claim its own.Then, with affection trifle not,Nor smite the breast you should protect,Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,Where lies the victim of neglect.
Remember you’re her only stay;And every slight and insult shownWill fester unto deep decay,Until the grave shall claim its own.Then, with affection trifle not,Nor smite the breast you should protect,Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,Where lies the victim of neglect.
Remember you’re her only stay;And every slight and insult shownWill fester unto deep decay,Until the grave shall claim its own.
Remember you’re her only stay;
And every slight and insult shown
Will fester unto deep decay,
Until the grave shall claim its own.
Then, with affection trifle not,Nor smite the breast you should protect,Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,Where lies the victim of neglect.
Then, with affection trifle not,
Nor smite the breast you should protect,
Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,
Where lies the victim of neglect.
SELF-DEVOTION.
———
BY GIFTIE.
———
Upon the margin of a blue stream that ran singing through a lonely valley among the green hills of New England, there stood in the olden time, a low cottage, built of logs, and half covered with woodbine and wild honeysuckle. The small patch of Indian corn near it hardly deserved the name of a garden, and the dense forests that surrounded it, showed that as yet civilization had penetrated but little way into the wilds of the new world. Yet the variety of wild flowers which, transplanted from their native glades, blossomed around the low doorway, and the air of neatness that pervaded the rude establishment, proved a degree of refinement greater than was usual among the Indian tribes.
It was now the hour of twilight, and not a sound was heard save the low murmuring of the wind as it swept through the dark recesses, and swayed the tangled branches of the mighty forest-trees. In one of the two small rooms into which the cottage was divided, an aged Indian and his squaw were seated beside a rude couch, where lay the form of a dying woman. Her delicate complexion and light hair betrayed her English origin, and she was still young, and had once been beautiful, though her face bore the traces of a wo more heavy than the weight of years. Yet peace was there, and the smile of calm resignation which rested upon her features, told that not in vain had been the sorrow which had bowed her to the grave. At the foot of the couch stood a missionary—one of those holy men whose lives of toil and suffering were passed in the vain endeavor to counteract the effects of the vices introduced among the Indians by their foreign oppressors.
The chieftain lifted his head from his breast and said, in a low tone, “She is passing away. The fair flower we would have cherished upon our hearts is withered.”
At these words the dying woman opened her eyes, and a smile broke over her pale face as she said, “Mourn not for me, kind father; and thou, tender mother, weep no more. Ye would not keep a bird from its native sky, that its song might cheer you. Even like a bird my spirit would spread its wings that it may fly away and be at rest.”
The Indian mother raised her eyes wildly and wrung her hands as she gazed on her adopted child. Then swaying her body to and fro, she murmured in the half singing half wailing tones of an Indian lament, “Will not our hut be very desolate, my bird, when thy song is hushed; and who will bring us light like the light of thy starry eyes? Shall we not miss thy voice at eventide when we kneel to the God thou hast taught us to worship? Leave us not—leave us not, for our life goes with thee to the grave!”
The missionary raised his hands to heaven, and a lofty faith spoke in his voice, as he said, “Mourn ye not, nor weep. The exile departeth for her native land, the wanderer for her father’s house. A light is fading from your path, but another star shall soon be added to the Redeemer’s crown. The flower ye would have cherished hath drooped amid these alien skies, but it shall bloom in fresher beauty in the Paradise above.”
As he finished speaking, the dying lady placed in his hands a manuscript, bidding him read it when she was dead; and then, with one farewell look of love on the kind faces that surrounded her, she closed her eyes wearily, and crossing her small white hands upon her breast, she composed herself as if to sleep. There was a long silence, broken only by the low wailing of the Indian woman, as she murmured in an under tone, “The way is long, the way is dark; oh, bird of the bright eye, thou soarest out of sight! who shall tell us the path to the spirit-land when thy singing voice is hushed? Wo for us! wo, wo—for the way is dark!” Gradually these low moans seemed to reach the ear that was fast closing to earthly sounds. The lips of the dying moved, as if in a vain effort to speak, and at length, in faint tones, she whispered, “They shall be gathered out of every kindred and tribe and nation, and there shall be one fold and one Shepherd. I know—I know that my Redeemer liveth.” A brilliant smile lighted her whole face with an expression of triumph, as she uttered these words of hope, and even in speaking them, the spirit fled.
That evening the missionary opened the manuscript. It read as follows:
“You have been kind to me, and have respected the sacred silence of the sorrow which has worn out my life. There are moments when every heart yearns for sympathy, and the long closed fountains of the soul flow again. Such a mood is on me now, and therefore I open to you this long-sealed heart.
“Of my childhood I will say little, save that it passed like a fairy revel. Heiress of unbounded wealth, and last of a long-descended and honorable family, I was loved with a lavish and doating fondness, until a sudden and terrible disease, that cut down my parents in the pride and glory of their days, left me an orphan. From that grief, which, for a time, was so violent as to threaten the destruction of life and reason, I never fully recovered. Even when change of scene, the progress of time, and the natural elasticity of youth had so far changed me, that I appeared to have forgotten my sorrow, there lay ever upon my heart the shadow of the tomb. After a time I was sent to reside with my aunt, at the north of England. She was waiting in the castle gate to receive me when I arrived there, and beside her rode her only son—my Cousin Gerald.
“How slight a thing may seal the whole future of our lives. We greet with a careless word and a momentary glance those whose fate is to color our own forever, and then pass on unthinking that henceforth our destiny is fixed. And yet the first time I saw him his image was stamped on my heart. Sorrow, change, wrong, despair have passed over it—but that image is there still. As I write, the curtain of the past seems drawn back, and again I greet thee, Gerald Bellamont. Again I meet the gaze of those flashing eyes—I hear the low, rich music of thy voice, and I feel the floods of deep, unquenchable love, rising in my soul for thee—thou loved so vainly.
“Days, weeks and months passed on, and we spoke not of love, perchance knew not that the fatal spell was upon us. But at last the dream was broken—the hours of peaceful affection passed away. Gerald left us for a tour on the Continent, and with the struggle of that first parting came the knowledge of all that we were to each other—came the tumult, the trembling, the fearfulness of love.
“At first the tedious hours were relieved by frequent letters from him, so full of tender affection, and withal so overflowing with youthful enjoyment of the new scenes around him, that even my fond heart was content to have him absent. Then letters came more seldom—then ceased altogether—and then, in the midst of our wonder and anxiety, he appeared suddenly in his old home; but so changed from the merry-hearted boy to the reserved, thought-stricken man, that my timid nature was abashed, and I dared not question him concerning the change which Ifelthad come over his inmost being.
“We were wedded; and if I detected, even amid the bridal festivities, a shade of sadness on my husband’s brow, I strove to console myself with the hope that now he was mine—mine forever; the love so deep, so self-sacrificing, which I would every moment lavish upon him, could not but chase away the bitter memories which oppressed him. Residing on my own estate near London, our house was the resort of the noble and the gay; and amid the exciting whirl of this new life, little time was left for anxious thought. I entered into the pleasures which surrounded me with the zest of a young and joyous heart; and for a few months life was filled with sunshine—and the hours flew swiftly away; ah! why came so soon that night of agony on which there dawned no morrow.
“I was dressed at last—ready for the fancy ball. My costume, which had been selected by Lord Bellamont, had been pronounced perfect by my maids, and even my fastidious taste could suggest no improvement. After one parting glance of satisfaction at the mirror which reflected my brilliant figure, I descended to the library, where I knew Gerald waited for me, expecting to be welcomed with that smile of admiration which woman so highly prizes from the lips of love. To my surprise, Gerald did not turn at my entrance; and as I approached the window where he sat, I found him gazing at a small picture, with which he was so intently occupied as to be unconscious of my presence. It was a full-length female figure. She stood with one arm thrown across a lyre, and one raised to heaven. A long, dark curl had strayed from her bandeau of pearls and rested on her neck, and the hair was parted back smoothly from her high brow. The face was passing beautiful, with a fire in the dark eyes, and on the small mouth, an air of lofty determination which might have become a priestess at the altar of sacrifice. Beneath was written—Leonore St. Clair.
“As I stood behind him, hesitating how to break his revery, Gerald started up suddenly, and tearing the picture to pieces, threw the fragments out of the window, where the night wind scattered them far and wide. He watched them with a look made up of scorn and grief, and was turning away with a sigh, when he first saw me standing near him. A deep flush passed over his face, and he looked earnestly, almost sternly at me for a few moments. I was as much confused as himself, though I scarce knew why, but I had sufficient command of myself to ask some question about the picture—I know not what. Folding me in his arms, he kissed me again and again before he answered. ‘I will tell you about it some time—do not ask me now. I thought it destroyed long ago, until by accident I found it to-night. It is a relic of something I must forget—I would gladly forget;’ and he pressed me passionately to his heart, with words of deep tenderness. Was I mad, was I blind, that even then no foreboding whisper told my heart its doom? Yet at that moment I thought only that he was unhappy; and when I saw him smile again, the suspicion fled, that for a moment had disturbed me, and, gayest of the gay, proudest of the proud, I mingled with the throng which filled the saloons of Lady Gordon.
“Late in the evening, as leaning on the arm of Lord ——, I wandered from room to room, seeking refuge from the crowd and the oppressive heat, we found our way into the library, where but few had collected. As we entered, we were greeted by a strain of music so sweet and thrilling, that I involuntarily pressed forward to listen. On a sofa near us the musician was seated. One arm, exquisitely moulded, and white as snow, was thrown across a harp, as she drew from the strings a few simple notes. She was dressed in white satin, which was not more purely beautiful than her complexion, and was without ornament, save a few pearls that gleamed among the braids of her raven hair, and on her bosom she wore a single white rose—its leaves were withered. The instant I saw her, I had a dim recollection of having seen that face before, and while I was striving to recall the time and place, she commenced singing. Never heard I music like the melody she uttered. It might have been thought the voice of an angel chanting the songs of heaven; but, alas! though the voice was of heaven, the song was earthly. Shesang of love—not the happy love of that better land, but sad, broken-hearted, such as woman’s hath too often been—utterly vain and hopeless.
‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,A word, a thought of thee,Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,Almost to agony.‘And rarely do I think of thee,Save at some lonely hour,When memories of the buried pastCome over me with power.‘Or when upon the moonlit air,I hear the sound of song,Or a low music, like thy voice,Borne on the wind along,‘Touches some fragment of the chordThat lies all shattered now,Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,Of thy forgotten vow.’
‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,A word, a thought of thee,Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,Almost to agony.‘And rarely do I think of thee,Save at some lonely hour,When memories of the buried pastCome over me with power.‘Or when upon the moonlit air,I hear the sound of song,Or a low music, like thy voice,Borne on the wind along,‘Touches some fragment of the chordThat lies all shattered now,Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,Of thy forgotten vow.’
‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,A word, a thought of thee,Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,Almost to agony.‘And rarely do I think of thee,Save at some lonely hour,When memories of the buried pastCome over me with power.‘Or when upon the moonlit air,I hear the sound of song,Or a low music, like thy voice,Borne on the wind along,‘Touches some fragment of the chordThat lies all shattered now,Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,Of thy forgotten vow.’
‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,A word, a thought of thee,Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,Almost to agony.
‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,
A word, a thought of thee,
Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,
Almost to agony.
‘And rarely do I think of thee,Save at some lonely hour,When memories of the buried pastCome over me with power.
‘And rarely do I think of thee,
Save at some lonely hour,
When memories of the buried past
Come over me with power.
‘Or when upon the moonlit air,I hear the sound of song,Or a low music, like thy voice,Borne on the wind along,
‘Or when upon the moonlit air,
I hear the sound of song,
Or a low music, like thy voice,
Borne on the wind along,
‘Touches some fragment of the chordThat lies all shattered now,Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,Of thy forgotten vow.’
‘Touches some fragment of the chord
That lies all shattered now,
Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,
Of thy forgotten vow.’
“At this moment I was startled by a deep sigh near me, and looking up, saw Gerald standing in the deep shadow of the window recess. He was gazing on the singer, who sat directly before him. The lady heard the sigh—their eyes met, and the glance which flashed from them, spoke volumes. For a moment she seemed confused and agitated, then with a look of proud anguish, and a voice that faltered not in its clear, low tones, she finished the song.
‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hopeIs that we ne’er may meet;That passing years may teach my heartTo scorn thee, and forget.’
‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hopeIs that we ne’er may meet;That passing years may teach my heartTo scorn thee, and forget.’
‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hopeIs that we ne’er may meet;That passing years may teach my heartTo scorn thee, and forget.’
‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hopeIs that we ne’er may meet;That passing years may teach my heartTo scorn thee, and forget.’
‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hope
Is that we ne’er may meet;
That passing years may teach my heart
To scorn thee, and forget.’
“Her lips quivered, and her pale cheek became crimson as she concluded, and I fancied tears trembled in the depths of her dark, radiant eyes. She turned her face toward Gerald, and for a moment they continued gazing on each other with a look full of sorrowful love, of agony and despair. It was not till she had left the room that I found strength to speak. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. The answer told me the whole story. It was Leonore St. Clair.
“When and how he had met her I knew and thought not. It was enough to know that she loved him—that his whole soul was given to her, and that I—oh God! I was unbeloved. My brain seemed to burn, and my heart ceased to beat—and yet I did not faint. There is a fearful strength in woman’s heart, of which she is unconscious till the hour of her uttermost agony. Turning from the brilliant scene, I passed through the window into the garden. There was one walk which had been left unlighted, and thither my steps were bent. It led to a small temple, which had been erected to Cupid, and a lamp that hung over the altar, showed the figure of the sleeping boy; but the recesses of the temple were in deep shadow. I entered, and threw myself on a seat in the darkest corner. Was itchance, or was it ordered by the mysterious Providence which revealed to me the fearful secret that was to blight my happiness forever?
“As I lay there striving to still the tumult of my thoughts, footsteps approached, and Leonore St. Clair entered, followed by my husband. She cast a hurried glance around, but saw me not, and then turning to him, said, haughtily, ‘Leave me, rash man. Is it not enough that you once cold and cruelly deceived me, but must you thus force yourself into my presence, and revive the memory of feelings I deemed long since dead. Leave me—I command you!’ and she motioned him away with an impatient gesture. I leaned forward to hear the reply. ‘Say not so, Leonore. Hear me—nay, turn not away, for you must hear me. Long ere I knew you I was betrothed to another. She was gentle and beautiful; oh, dearest, can you blame me that I shrunk from breaking her kind and faithful heart. Would you have taken my hand if it were stained with her tears? Would you have accepted a dishonored name? Too well I knew you, too deeply had I read your noble nature to dream of doing aught but to bow in silence to my sad destiny. Nay, more, deeply, wildly as I loved you, until that last day we spent together on the Rhine, I knew not that I was beloved in return; I had been told you were the promised bride of another. Then, when I first knew that you were free, and I—I bound to another; I cannot speak of this—I cannot think of it; sometimes I fear I am going mad.’
“I did not hear her answer, for as he spoke he drew her to the steps of the altar, and they sat down together. They conversed some time in a low tone, and I heard the sound of weeping. At last they rose, and as the light fell full on their faces, I saw they were both fearfully agitated. She drew her hands from his with a look of passionate despair. ‘Go, now,’ she said, ‘go, while I have power to bid you leave me. God knows I shall never forget you; but from this moment we must never, never meet again.’
“ ‘I go,’ he replied, sadly; ‘yet ere we part, Leonore, I ask one kiss—the first, the last. Let me press you once to this heart, and it will be nerved to endure all things.’
“She fell into his arms—he clasped her to his bosom, and I saw their lips meet. Another moment and he had turned from her. ‘Farewell!’ he said, in a low, hoarse tone. ‘Farewell,forever!’ was the response.
“She remained standing until the sound of his steps had died away, and then flung herself down heavily on the marble floor. Even in that first hour of misery I felt no hatred of her. I longed to creep to her bosom, and mingle my tears with hers, and echo the sobs that came thick and gaspingly from her lips. After a while she rose slowly, and leaned against the altar, while words came from her lips, faint at first, and broken, but growing louder, till I could distinguish them. ‘To die—to die! It would be but a moment of agony, and then all is peace. Why should I tremble? What can the world be to me henceforth but a living tomb? And he—the vainly loved; ah! Gerald, were I gone forever—couldst thou not soon learn to forget me? For thy sake, beloved, I dare die.’ As she spoke she took from her bosom a small phial, and as it passed before the light, I saw it was full of a red liquid. Almost involuntarily I sprung forward and dashed it to the ground as she raised it to her lips. ‘Do not—do not commit murder!’ I whispered breathlessly. She gazed at me wildly for a few moments, pressed her hands to her brow, and sunk fainting to the floor.
“I supported her till she revived, and with her first breath of consciousness she asked my name. I did not reply. Just then we heard voices calling her. She sprung up hastily, and I was astonished at her self-possession—for I was new in the school of misery,she poor thing, knew what it was to smile, while her heart was breaking. For a while she buried her face in her hands, and when she looked up, save a slight trace of tears round her eyes, all trace of emotion had vanished from her features. Seizing my arm as I stood leaning for support against a pillar, she drew me forward to the light, saying, in a tone too proudly bitter ever to be forgotten, ‘You have seen and heard much—more than could have been wrung by years of torture from the proud heart of Leonore St. Clair. Yet when you see me, you shall know how bravely a strong soul can sustain itself when all its hopes are crushed, and life is a burden. You shall see how my calm, haughty mien shall fling defiance at you if you choose to publish my secret. Tell me, girl—who are you?’
“ ‘I am the wife of Gerald Bellamont.’
“With a start of horror and a faint cry, she dropped my arm and fled from the spot.
“Do you wonder that I can think and write of this with calmness? I tell you there have been moments when, as the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the buried past came rushing back over my soul, I have cried out in my agony, and prayed to drink of the blessed fountain of Lethe, and forget forever. But this is past now. A higher faith hath taught me the meaning of this fearful lesson, a higher hope sustains me than was ever born of human love. Truly earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot cure.
“The night was far spent ere I reached my home. My husband came soon after. I heard him enter his chamber, and for a long time I listened to the sound of his heavy steps as he paced the floor. At last he threw himself on the bed, and then all was still. Nature could endure no more, and I fell asleep. Wild and terrible were the visions that flitted around my couch. I was in a vast banqueting-hall, and with me the companions of the last night’s revel. Again I saw the flowers, the lights, the bright, happy faces, and again the dancers whirled by me. The night waned, the stars went out one by one, and daylight shone in on the dying lamps; yet still those wild revelers flew by me. The sun rose up and shed his fervent beams upon us. The flowers faded, and the faces of the dancers grew wan, and one by one they dropped down and died. The twilight crept over the hills, and night came on—not radiant with stars, and redolent with the breath of flowers, but horribly dark—the realization of impenetrable gloom. And slowly from out of that blackness came forth the form of a woman, clothed in white, and grasping a lyre, from the strings of which she drew forth no sound. Over her head a veil was thrown, hiding her face, and descending in wavy folds to her feet. She moved not, breathed not—all was still as the silence of the tomb.
“Light rose no more upon me, but I saw all things in that deep darkness more distinctly than ever.Yearspassed over me. I saw the finger of Time smite the walls of my prison-house, and they crumbled to dust. The grass grew up from the decaying floor, and became longer and longer, till its dull rustling answered to the moaning wind. From the dust of those beings, once so full of life and loveliness, the ivy weed sprung and wound itself round the roofless pillars till the vast charnel-house was green and beautiful as a garden.
“Then there came around me, as I stood there in my awful solitude, faces and forms that looked out fitfully from the darkness, and then disappeared. They wandered around, they stood beside me, some gazing on me with pale, spiritual faces, bright, yet mournful in their loveliness, and some with the countenances of fiends, that laughed horribly at my desolation. And there was one form that took its place beside that marble figure, and fixed upon me the glance of its dark eyes, reaching forth its hands as if in vain efforts to approach me. Amid a thousand phantoms I should have known him—it was Gerald.
“I had borne all things else in my dreadful destiny, but I could not bear the mournful expression of that dear face. Tears, blessed tears came to my relief. I sprung forward, the fetters that had bound me seemed broken, and I would have flung myself into his arms, when suddenly that long, motionless figure interposed itself between us, and as her hand swept the lyre-strings, there came from them a strain of unearthly melody. It was repeated from the distance, and on its pealing echoes there came the sound of voices mingled with the tramping of many feet, and forth from the darkness there came, two by two, a band, clothed in garments of sable blackness, and girdled each with a girdle of living fire; and on the girdle, and on the forehead of each were written, in letters of blood, these words, ‘forever and forever.’ They passed slowly by, and in passing each turned and looked at me. I shuddered at the sight, for it was like the faces of the damned.
“Suddenly I felt myself seized and borne onward by an invisible force. Then there rose on the air a low, wailing anthem, that might have been the dirge of a lost soul, and as it grew louder and nearer, directly before me there seemed as it were a great curtain rolled up, and I was in a vast cathedral. We stood before the altar; around me were ranged that band of fearful ones, with their burning girdles, and before me the priest, dressed in his pontifical robes, and wearing still that cincture of living fire. The marriage ceremony proceeded—it was finished, and I turned to receive the bridal kiss. The person at my side turned also, and I saw his face—it was Gerald. With a cry of joy I sprung forward to his embrace, when suddenly there came that marble form between me and my beloved. She fell into his arms, she was pressed to his heart, she received the kiss which should have been mine alone. Then rose again that strain of dirge-like music—then pealed the shouts of fiendish, mocking laughter; the whole scene vanished from my sight; I felt the ground pass from under my feet, and from the immense distance I heard a voice cry, ‘Come, come, come—come to the judgment of the deceived and the deceiver.’ With these words I felt myself borne swiftly through the air. A giant’s strength would have been vain against the force which held me—I was powerless as an infant.
“We passed with the speed of a whirlwind through the region of clouds and storm, and left star after star behind us, till we reached the bounds of the visible universe. Still there appeared system after system ofworlds, each with its suns and stars, and still our flight was onward—onward, while ever and anon there came through the blue ether, the echo of that awful summons, ‘Come, come, come!’ At length we reached the bounds of inhabited space, and entered the lone fields of chaos. And now faintly there came upon my vision another star, which seemed flying on its way as if pursued by the spirit of wrath. We approached it rapidly—it was a world on fire. I saw forms that wandered to and fro, striving in vain to fly from their torments—‘hateful, miserable, and hating one another.’ They ran to and fro, they plunged into rivers that rolled in sullen billows through that world of despair, and shrunk back howling, for the waves were of liquid fire. They glared horribly on one another with their fiery eyes, and raised their hands with deep curses to where, in the lurid sky above them, burned in blood-red letters, the curse of their awful sentence, ‘forever and forever!’
“Upon the verge of this fiery world we paused, and for a few moments there was a deep and fearful silence. Then the band of dark spirits opened their ranks and led forth the form of a man. It was Gerald. I saw them hover with him over the fiery abyss. I saw his impotent struggles to escape; and breaking from the power that held me, I cried, ‘I am thine, beloved—take me with thee—in the midst of guilt and anguish, thine, still thine!’ An instant more and I should have reached him, when, with a wild laugh,thatform came again between us. Slowly she raised from her features the shadowy veil—it was the face of Leonore. With a sharp cry, I started from her. The spell which had bound me was broken. In mercy I awoke.
“Trembling, scarcely daring to think it all a dream, I drew aside the curtains to look around, and beheld my husband standing before me. He was frightfully pale and haggard, his eyes were dim and bloodshot, and startled at his appearance, and for a moment half forgetting the dreadful secret I had learned, I threw my arms around him, and drew his face down to mine. A deeper shade passed over his brow, and he sighed heavily as he pressed his lips to my cheek. I could not return the kiss. I could not speak. Perhaps he did not notice my silence, for in a few moments he told me that he had received letters requiring his immediate presence in France, and had made preparations to leave in a few hours. Some more words he spoke, but I knew not what they were, and then clasping me convulsively to his heart, he bade me try to sleep again, and left me.
“Sleep—oh mockery! What had I to do with sleep or rest, while I bore within me the blight of a sleepless wo! How may I tell of the weary days that succeeded? At first there were hours of frantic misery—tears of wild and passionate despair. Then came the silent sorrow—the dull heart-aching that so slowly and surely wears out the life. Had I loved Gerald less, I might have called pride to my aid—I should have felt resentment or jealousy, but judging him from the fullness of my forgiving heart, I had none of these emotions, which might have nerved me to forget my wrongs. Once after that fatal night I saw Leonore at the Opera, where I had been carried by the solicitations of my friends. She was fearfully changed. The rich fullness of her form was gone, the bloom had faded from her cheek, and her eyes were dim, as if she too had wept tears of vain sorrow. She sat among her gay and splendid companions, silent, motionless, abstracted.
“That night I returned home to find a new affliction. Lights were flitting to and fro, and the servants avoided me as I entered—for none cared to tell me the sad tidings. Lord Bellamont had returned home violently ill, and when I entered his bed-chamber, I found the physician already there, striving to rouse him from the stupor into which he had fallen. Sorrow and sickness had written deep lines on that dear face, and even amid the weakness of delirium he seemed to battle with the strong heart’s agony. Seven days I sat beside his pillow. I faltered not—I wearied not. Seven nights I saw the twilight steal over the hills, and the moon fade from the sky, and I slept not. Naught but a love like mine could have endured these torturing vigils. My whole being resolved itself into one intense thought of him—one fervent prayer that he might not go down in the noonday of his life and beauty to be a dweller with the dead. For myself—my resolution was taken. I would no longer be the living mildew on his brightest hopes—the fetter that bound him from all he loved best. Ah, woman’s heart is strong, and He who formed it for love and sorrow, alone knows how much it will endure ere it break.
“Religion forbade that I should for his sake give up this mortal life, else I would willingly have died, but I could give up thelifeoflife—sacrifice all that made earth joyous or beautiful—break the tie that bound him to misery and to me. I could leave him. Poorly as he had requited my love, he was still the chief pleasure and glory of my existence. Even then to hear his voice, to watch the return of health to his enfeebled frame, to gaze upon his face in silence and unheeded, was the sole happiness left me, and that, even that I gave up for his sake. Ah, Gerald, could I know that when free thy heart turned back once, only once, after the lost one, I would not regret the sacrifice. Alas! it was vain—all in vain. Let me hasten on, lest my brain grow wild again with these fearful memories.
“My preparations were soon made. Fortunately for my purpose, one of the servants had some relatives who were to emigrate to America, and I had at his request, supplied them with the requisite means. I sent for him, and with a calmness at which I even then wondered, I told him I wished to send under his care a young friend, whom I requested him to treat with respect and attention, as grief for the loss of a friend had made him slightly insane. He promised to take the charge, and appointed the place where I should meet him, suspecting nothing of my design. Why should he? Too well had that fatal secret been kept; my nearest friends knew nothing of what had passed.
“The parting hour came too quickly. I was calm, for there was neither hope nor fear in my heart. I only knew that I must leave Gerald, and what else remained to me in life. I stained my face till I was dark as a gipsy, and cut off the long, silken tresses of which I was once so proud. Then clothing myself in thegarments of my page, I secreted about my person a small amount of money, and taking a bundle of clothes in order to sustain my assumed character, I was ready to depart. At the threshold of the door I paused, and unable to go without seeing him once more, I stole softly to the room where my husband lay sleeping; I knelt by his couch, over which the moonlight fell brightly, and gazed into his face with that earnest look which a drowning man might give of earth and sky ere the blue waters closed over him forever. As I gazed, the sleeper stirred, a smile passed over his face, and he spoke my name. That one word unnerved me. Tears rose to my eyes, and hope, which I had deemed long since dead, sent her low, thrilling whisper through my heart. For a few moments I was swayed with conflicting emotions, as visions of past days rose before me. It was not long. Again came the thought of the last few months of sorrow, and I could no longer doubt. Rising with a new resolution, I went to the table that stood near and wrote a few lines—the transcript of my heart’s despair.
“ ‘Farewell, Gerald—I know all; I can no longer endure to be the cause of wo to you, whom I love far more than life. Ere you read this I shall be gone from you forever. Be happy, for I shall never return from that last resting-place to cast a shadow over your soul. God knows I blame you not. It was sufficient of blessedness for me that I was worn a little while on your heart, though I be now cast aside like a withered weed to perish.’
“Folding the letter, I laid it on the pillow. Still he slept, but the smile had faded from his face, and I bent over him and pressed on his lips one last kiss—the seal of my sacrifice. The touch disturbed him, and I paused to catch the words that he spoke, as he turned restlessly on his pillow—the last words I might hear from him. It came—the word was ‘Leonore.’
“Silently, as if that word had been a curse to cling to me through life, I turned and left him. Without a pause I tracked the mazes of the garden and the park—heedless, tearless, miserable. As I came near to the Park Lodge, lights were glancing in the cottage, and a carriage stood at the door. The children were already seated in it, and soon the parents came to the door, and as I leaned exhausted against a tree, I saw the parting, and heard the sound of low sobbings, of blessings, and of prayers. Alas! I had departed, unblest, unwept. I know not what spell was in the sound, but in a moment I was collected and firm, and entering the carriage I wrapped myself in my cloak, and as they asked me no questions, we rode in silence from the spot which contained all that was dear to me on earth. Morning was breaking before we reached the vessel, whose sails were spread, and her deck crowded with passengers. A short time sufficed to place us among them, and in a few moments the anchor was weighed, and the vessel dropped down the river.
“After this there is a long, long period of which I remember nothing. The various incidents of our voyage and our arrival in the new world, passed before me like the vague and changing scenes of a dream. The necessity for action taken away, my whole being sunk into a sort of apathy, and heart and mind seemed palsied. From this state I was roused by finding that preparations were being made to send me back to England, and a vague horror seized me at the thought, though I had no recollection of the past. With the cunning of insanity, I made no objection to the plan, but one day, unnoticed, I rambled away from the village, and for many days wandered on through the woods without aim or motive, save the vague fear of something behind. I remember reaching at last the top of a high hill, amid a violent storm of thunder and lightning, and there night closed around me, dark and mirky, and beneath the pouring rain I lay down on a bare rock and slept. There I was found next morning by the Indian chief whose wigwam has from that time been my home. A long sickness which ensued reduced me to the brink of the grave, and for many weeks I was insensible to the care of my kind nurses, but their simple skill and constant attention at last triumphed over the violence of disease, and I awoke to reason and—wo is me—to a recollection of the long hidden past.
“It was Gerald—it was my husband! Merciful heaven! after so many years of painful separation did we meet again!
“I had been sick and weak for some days, and my Indian father had led me forth one sunny morning into the green old woods, where I reclined, concealed by flowering shrubs, upon the mossy trunk of an old tree. Suddenly we heard the tramp of horses, and winding along the narrow path came a band of armed men, and their leader was Lord Bellamont. His face was stern and pale, and there lay the weight of years which were not his, in the thin, gray locks which floated over his brow; yet at the first glance I knew him, and rising almost unconsciously, I followed after him. Mile after mile I went on unheeding, and my kind protector accompanied me without a question, for he saw that a great purpose nerved my feeble frame. When the noontide heat had passed, we reached the top of a small hill, and in an open level plain below, we saw hostile armies arrayed for battle. One long hour I watched the waving of that snow-white plume, hither and thither among the soldiers, till at last it was struck down. Horribly distinct even now is the agony of that moment, when my straining eye was fixed on that spot with an intensity which through the confused mêlée of the fight never for one instant wavered. When the course of the conflict swept the armies further down the plain, I rose and went to the spot. I knew him—ghastly and bleeding as he was, and God gave me strength to know that he was dying, and yet to endure.
“A few hours after he opened his eyes, and the pain of his wounds seemed relieved. I had laid him on my own bed, and was kneeling beside him. ‘Pray for me,’ he said, faintly, ‘for I must die, and there is guilt on my soul.’ I bowed my head lower, and tears fell from my hot and aching eyes. As I listened to that well-remembered voice, all the wild joy of our first love came rushing back over my soul, and over-powered by the recollection, I fainted.
“When I recovered, they told me that the missionarywe had sent for had arrived and was with Gerald. I crept silently into the room, and stood concealed behind a screen, which had been arranged to protect the sufferer from the draught of air. He was speaking in a low, mournful tone, but I heard every word distinctly. ‘It was a wild, and sad, but not a guilty love,’ he said. ‘My own heart would have scorned me, had I brought shame on the young head I have bowed even to the grave with a weight of sorrow too heavy to be borne. I looked upon Ella in her young beauty, and strove to forget the dark, spiritual eyes of Leonore. We were wedded—Ella and I—and when I spoke the bridal vows, it was with a heart as pure as if she whose destiny had been so fatally linked with mine, was what she now is, an angel in heaven, I loved her; but that hopeless and ideal passion was only part of my remembrance of the beautiful scenes of sunny Italy; and while those sad thoughts chastened all present joy, they interfered not with the love I bore for Ella. Perhaps, had I understood better the deep, thoughtful nature of my gentle and joyous bride, I had after a while forgotten Leonore. But, wrapped in painful musings, I heeded not the manifestations of her sensitive nature, and regarded her only as the play-fellow of my thoughtless youth—too airy and brilliant to understand my saddened heart.’ He paused for a few moments, and then continued, in an agitated tone, ‘We met once more—Leonore and myself—oh, that I had died ere that evening. I knew not of her presence until I heard her singing a plaintive melody, and before it ended, she met my impassioned gaze. I saw the thrill of agony that shook her frame, and when she left the room, I followed; for the sight of her suffering maddened me. Then were wild words spoken—words which left lightning traces on more than one heart and brain. There were tears which seared as they fell—there was one long kiss, when our two souls rushed into one, and fell back, crushed and bleeding, from that fearful embrace. There was one wild, despairing farewell, and we were parted forever. The next morning I left England, and for months wandered over the Continent like a spirit of unrest, till at length wearied and sick with that heart-sickness which no art can cure, I returned home to die. Ella was absent when I reached my home. I remember being seized with a sudden fainting as I entered the room, and then all is a vague dream, till I awoke one morning as from sleep, and found myself weak as an infant. Then, as I slowly recovered, I first became aware of the exceeding strength of woman’s love. My wife, who, like an angel of mercy, had watched over my sick bed, whose gentle and patient tenderness had endured all things without a complaining word; oh, my father, spare me the recital of what followed—she knew all—she left me, that I might once more be free; she hoped I might be happy.’
“For a long time he was silent, and when he spoke again, his voice was feeble and broken, and he wiped the large drops from his brow.
“ ‘There is but one scene more. I sat alone in my deserted house, and prayed to die, for my grief was too heavy to be borne. Suddenly a carriage drove to the door, and a letter was handed me. It contained but few words, but those few I can never forget. ‘The time is come when without guilt thou mayest look upon me. The love which men give the dead, even the living may forgive. Now, whenpassed away from thee forever—now only may I say—I love thee!’ ’
“ ‘I descended to the carriage, and they drove me to the door of a large mansion, where I was met by General St. Clair. His face was sad but stern, as he seized my arm, and simply saying it had been the last request of Leonore, he led me to a darkened room, and left me. On a couch near the window lay a form covered with a heavy pall. I raised it, and saw Leonore reclining there in the perfect beauty of repose. I knelt beside her, and pressing her cold hand to my aching heart, spoke her name. But the dark lashes moved not on her cheek—never more might those glorious eyes flash forth their welcome at my coming—never more would those pale lips open with words of greeting. She was dead, and the guilt of a double murder lay upon my soul.’
“Againthere was a deep silence, and I heard the slow, labored breathing of the dying man. The priest bent over him, saying ‘Son, there is mercy for the guiltiest—despair not.’
“ ‘I do not despair,’ replied he, fervently speaking with effort. ‘The time for that passed away with the hour when calmed and humbled I knelt at the altar of my God, whose dealings with me even then I understood not, and consecrated my life to his service.’
“ ‘Thine hour is come. Son, art thou ready to depart?’
“ ‘There was one hope,’ he replied, faintly, ‘one last hope that my fatal life might end in peace. But God hath ordered otherwise, and it is well.’
“ ‘What was that hope?’ asked the priest.
“ ‘I heard not long since that Ella was not dead. That she escaped to this new world. I hoped to find her, and solace her for years of suffering by my deep devotion. Oh, my God!’ he added, suddenly clasping his hands together, ‘why couldst thou not grant this last prayer of a broken heart. To see her, to hear her say that I am forgiven—to die upon her breast—’
“I could restrain myself no longer, and rushed forward, exclaiming, ‘Gerald, my love, my husband! behold me here, loving thee, forgiving thee, even as when for thy sake, I left thy country and thy home!’ I sunk, half kneeling, on the floor beside the bed. He gazed on me a moment in speechless wonder, and then, with the supernatural strength of life’s last effort, lifted himself from the pillows, and clasping his arms around me, drew me close, close to his heart. Oh, the blissful repose, the unmingled ecstasy of that moment. Forgotten were my wrongs and my sorrow—the agony behind, and the desolation before—the coming and the bygone despair.
“Closer and closer grew his embrace, and his face touched mine. ‘My wife, my bride—receive the last kiss of him who is now wholly thine!’ I raised my head, and his cold lips pressed mine. I felt his form sink slowly beneath me, and the clinging arms relax their hold. I knew that the spirit had fled, and thanked God for that one hour of bliss which left me alone again on earth.”
Here the manuscript ceased suddenly, and though some words had been added, apparently at a later date, the hand of the writer must have been weak indeed, for they were illegible.