Decoration - Ship on Ocean
"He—he—he! Didn't Massa George make Spit-fire fly, tho'? Gorry! 'specks them bobolishenis 'll have to take it now, no 'stake. He—he—he!"
"O you get out. What you talk 'bout bobolishenis anyhow? Think you're mighty smart nigger, don't ye? It's my opinion ye don't know nothin'—that's all." And Aunt Lizzy moved away with the air of one who did understand and utterly despised one who was not as fortunate as herself, as the toss of her lofty turban perfectly demonstrated.
"'Specks old woman, ye'd jus' like to know all what dis nig' duz. 'Mighty smart! He—he—he! Gals ain't 'speeted to know nothin' no how," and Pete, who was the especial favorite of his young master, turned away from his unappreciative auditor with all the dignity supposed to have been handed over to him with the last suit of young massa's cast-off clothing in which he was pompously arrayed.
Just then the soft folds of a white dress peeped out from behind the foliage of the "Prairie Queen," which scrambled about in native abandonment everywhere over the corridor on one side of the moss-covered terrace. Pete saw it as it waved in the noonday breeze, which was scarcely sufficientto move a leaf or flower, so stealthily it came ladened with its burden of perfume. Discovering that some one was so near, the astonished slave was about to retreat in much confusion, when Grace Stanley stepped from behind the massive vine and stood before him.
Evidently there had been tears in her brilliant eyes that were unused to weeping, but they had succeeded only in leaving transparent shadows over their brightness. Sad traces, to be sure, of what had been, as well as presentiments of what might be. Her soft cheek wore a deeper tint than was usual to it, and her long lashes drooped lower, casting a sombre shade beneath them, and that was all. Yet the little heart, all unused to sorrow, throbbed beneath the pure white bodice with a wound it seemingly had not the power to bind up. She had come to Rosedale as free and joyous as the birds that flitted among the orange blossoms where the zephyrs were then gathering their sweets, and the future over which her feet would gladly tread decked with the brightest and sweetest flowers, among which the trailing serpent had never for a moment showed his treacherous head; but she had found that the blossom of hope will wither and the golden sunshine fade; and this consciousness had pierced her sensitive nature as a cruel dart, and the pain had made her cheek tear-stained and brought shadows of disappointment. She had met George St. Clair two years before her present visit, and thought him the most noble and true of all his sex, and who can tell of the dreams that came uninvited into her nightly visions as well as in her peaceful day reveries? Can you, gentle reader? There comes a day to us all when thekaleidoscope of every heart's experience gives a sudden turn as it presents to view more complex minglings of brilliant colors and perplexing designs than has ever been seen in any previous whirl, weird fancies through which we are all looking.
Grace Stanley had been watching their ever changing glow until the brilliant tints had imprinted their rosy hues over every hope and promise of her life; but on this very morning there had been another turn, and the sombre shades were now uppermost. He loved "Lily-Bell," and had flown from her presence a rejected lover, but without one word of farewell to her. "My country shall henceforth be my bride," she had heard him say, and who could tell what the terrible war might bring to them all. He was gone, and this fact alone was sufficient to sadden her future, still "no one shall know it," she thought as she walked across the garden and stepped upon the moss-covered terrace. "This hour shall be covered from sight forever, even from myself." She had grown calm as she stood there listening to the conversation just outside, and with a faint smile flitting among the sombre tints of sadness that were retreating from her pretty face, she bluntly asked the bewildered Pete—
"What did I hear you say about Master George?"
She had drawn more closely the thick veil of indifference, and suddenly her face was wreathed in smiles as she stood there looking into the dark, perplexed visage of the scared negro boy; just as flowers will grow and thrive in beauty on the graves where our idols lie buried.
"O nothin', Miss Grace—nothin', nothin' at all. But he did make Spit-fire look buful, sartin, sure.Gorry!didn't shego, tho'? Dat's all, Miss Grace, sure dat's all."
"I thought I heard you say something about his going to shoot the abolitionists, Pete, was I mistaken? Do you know what they are?"
"Don't know nothin', Miss Grace, sartin. 'Spects dey be somethin' what hunts a nigger mighty sharp, 'cause I heard Massa Charles say he'll pop 'em over—dat's all, young missus, sartin, sure, dat's all."
"Well, Pete, let me tell you something. In my opinion you will be wiser than you are now, and that before many years; only keep your eyes open."
"Neber you mind, Miss Gracy. Dis nig' 'll keep his eyes peeled, dat's what he will."
Grace Stanley passed leisurely into the hall which ran through the main building leading to the open court beyond where the fountain was throwing its cool, sparkling jets into the sunshine. She did not heed it, however, but passed on up the broad winding stairway, meeting no one on the way as she ascended to the hall above. The sun had nearly reached his meridian glory, and the oppressive heat had as usual driven the inmates of that elegant home to their shaded retreats, where in comfortable deshabille they lounged on beds and sofas drawn up by the open windows, that perchance they might catch some stray breeze that would flit up from the orange groves or come from the woodland far away on the hill side.
"Grace," called a sweet voice through the half-open door of Lillian's room, "I thought it wasyour light step I heard on the stairs. Come in here, darling. See how nice and cool it is." Grace obeyed, but Lillian did not notice the sombre shadows that were playing over the usually sunny face of her cousin, so absorbed was she with the hovering glooms that had fallen from her own passing clouds, and so she continued, pleasantly: "Perhaps you would like to make yourself a little more comfortable? Put on this wrapper, dear, and then come and sit by me, will you? I want to talk a little."
This was just what her companion did not care to do; still, remembering that her mission to Rosedale was to cheer by her lively mirth and vivacity her drooping cousin, she hastened to obey. Yet how was she to accomplish her task? Only three weeks had passed since her arrival, yet weeks so heavy with their weight of circumstance that her very soul seemed pressed down beneath their weight. Where now was her native joyousness? The cheering powers she was expected to impart to others? She must recall them. Yet she was chilled and oppressed; what was she to do? Act. Her retreating volubility could only be summoned again to its post through action, and itmustbe done!
"What a sweet little bouquet," she exclaimed, arousing herself to her work. "A delicate spray of jesamine, a few tiny rose-buds and geranium leaves. Do you know that I never could have done that? There is something so exquisite in their arrangement. Somehow as a whole they send an impressive appeal to the inner senses, my 'Lily Bell.' There must be such a bubbling fountain of poesy in a soul like yours. Teach me,dear cousin, to be like you." And the pensive speaker dropped upon the floor at the feet of Lillian, where she most delighted to sit, and drooping her head wearily upon her companion's knee.
Both were silent. One heart had that morning drawn back the rusty bolt on the door of its inner chamber and rejoiced to find itself strong enough to drive out at last, its long imprisoned secret of gloom that had made it so wretched through the revolving changes of many years, while the other was even then busy with the fastenings of the secret closet where the unsightly skeleton of her lost love was to be hidden from the world, from herself. Yet so doing might eat the bloom from her cheek and the joy from her buoyant nature. Why did she wish to be like Lillian? She had not asked even her aching heart this question, but all unconsciously to herself a response came up from the hidden recesses of her soul where a fresh grave had been dug by trembling hands and into it a dead hope had been lowered and closely covered, while the damp earth was trodden down hard about it, and the low whisper said, "If like her, this poor heart to-day would not be draped with its sombre emblems of bereavement." To be as she was, to possess the power to win. O the poor throbbing hearts all over the world that must keep on through the years with their wounds and pains, for in them are many graves hidden away among the cypress shades, where the passer-by can never spy them out; but the eye of the eternal one sees them all, and at every burial the tear of sympathy mingles with the liquid drops of bereavement that must fall on the stone at the mouth of the sepulcher which by and by will be rolled away at His command.
Lillian aroused herself after a long silence.
"You give me more praise, darling, than I deserve," she said. "I am as incapable as yourself in performing these little touches of the fine arts which you see every day on my table. Black Tezzie can alone teach you the mysteries of a skill she so fortunately possesses. Do not look so incredulous, or I shall be obliged to prove it to you," she smiled.
"I am not unbelieving, sweet Lily-Bell," she answered, "but I confess that you have surprised me. I should sooner have suspected either of the other servants of such a gift as that ungainly biped," Grace laughed, but Lillian remained silent.
"This only proves that it is sometimes impossible to read the soul from the outside, my pretty cousin. I learned long ago that there was more beauty and a brighter reflection of heavenly glory shut up in that ebony casket, so unprepossessing in its general make-up, than in half the more graceful and elegant ones. But perhaps you are among the number who believe that these dark forms we see every day have no souls within them?"
"Why, Lily-Bell! what a suspicion. Still, how am I supposed to have any knowledge regarding the matter, seeing I have never dissected one of them?"
A gesture of impatience followed this remark, but her companion did not appear to notice it, for she continued:
"I believe that old auntie has as pure and white a soul as ever inhabited an earthly tenement. I have laid my head on her bosom with a deeper sense of rest than it was possible for me to obtainelsewhere. Her prayers that have gone up so continually for 'de poor wee lamb' have imparted more real comfort and hope to this tempest-tossed soul of mine than any that could have ascended from consecrated temples. No soul? What could I ever have done without her in this life? And my anticipations regarding the brighter one to follow are stronger to-day because of her."
Grace Stanley arose from her seat and walked to the window, while her companion did not fail to perceive that a cloud had risen and was spreading itself over her features. Not wishing to press the subject further, she remarked calmly:
"Some of our company are leaving to-day, and George St. Clair wished me to hand over to you his adieus, as he departed in great haste, regretting the fact that he was not able to meet you again."
At the first sound of her voice Grace had returned to her seat upon the carpet, and Lillian, taking the sweet face between her little hands, gazed tenderly into it, as she continued:
"You will pardon me, darling cousin, I know, but did you not hear our conversation in the rose arbor, at the foot of the lower terrace, two hours ago?"
The dimples stole out of the cheeks the soft, white hands of the interrogator was pressing so lovingly, and the light joyousness in her bright, sparkling eyes became dimmed, while a veil of crimson spread itself over it all. The head bowed low as it released itself from its imprisonment, and tears that had long been struggling to be free came now unrestrainedly.
"I do not chide you, darling; I knew you were not far away, for I had espied a portion of yourwhite dress fluttering through a crevice of the vine outside of the trestle-work, and rejoiced that it was so."
"I would not have remained, Lillian, had not my dress become so entangled that I could not loosen it without revealing my presence. Believe me, cousin, I was not a willing listener. You will not doubt this?"
"Certainly not; and, darling, let me assure you that my heart is lighter for the circumstance, for we are confidants now. I have had such a longing to tell you all; but this one secret had become habitual to me. The very thought of revealing it filled me with a nervous horror. But it is over now, and by and by I want to impart to your tender sympathies half of the burden I have so long carried. You do not know how unendurable its weight has become. O Grace, it is dreadful to be obliged to endure for years the pains of a wounded heart. To feel its throbbings day after day without the power to claim a panacea from another's love."
Grace started.
"It must be true," she thought, "and am I to thus endure?"
Ah! little did she know how the first deep wounds, that seemingly "will never heal," can be soothed in some hearts, while in others no power can assuage the pain. Grace Stanley could forget, for the sunshine of her nature was salutary.
At this juncture Tezzie appeared in the doorway, and announced that "Missus wanted do young ladies to dress fine for dinner, for Massa Charles was coming back wid a strange gemman."
"Very well, we will be ready in good time," replied Lillian. "Now go and call Agnes to arrange my hair."
The dark, dumpy figure disappeared from sight, and Lillian, bowing her head, kissed again the pure white forehead of her companion.
"To-morrow, dear, I want your little heart to beat in sympathy with my own. Good by," and Grace left the room.
The Inn at Kirkham
"There, Agnes, you may go now. How do you like my looks? Will I do to appear before the the strange gentleman?"
"Look, Miss Lily? Why you look like the buful cloud I seed lyin' so soft and still in de sunshine, honey. But I like the white dress more, for den you look just like de angels, waiting for de wings."
"That will do. You have imagination sufficient for a poet, Agnes, but you may go now."
She smiled as she waved her hand towards the door with a delicate movement, and she was alone. Only a moment, however, for the faithful servant had just disappeared when the door reopened and Mrs. Belmont entered the apartment. She was still graceful and queenly in her bearing, and her long black dress swept the rich carpet with an imperious air. Time had been very gentle with that fair face, touching lightly her brow with his unwelcome traces, neither quenching the fire in her dark eyes nor dulling the lustre of her glossy hair. Yet her regal head had a habit of drooping, as if weary of its weight of thought, and her lips became more and more compressed as their color faded and lines of anxious care grew deeper as the years rolled by.
"I came to tell you that there was to be company at dinner."
"Not before? I understood Tezzie to say there would be a stranger here at lunch."
"It may be so; Charles is to bring home a college friend, I believe."
This would have been very unsatisfactory under some circumstances, but Lillian was not curious. As her mother entered the room she discovered that strange, wild light in her eyes which she had seen there many times before, and well knew that beneath it a hidden fire was raging. Mrs. Belmont had not once looked into the face of her daughter, but had seated herself by the open window, her elbow on the heavy frame-work, while her head rested wearily upon her hand. A soft, warm breeze came softly and caressed her with its perfumed wings, fanning her heated brow, and whispering all the time the sweetest words of purity and peace through the interwoven branches of the luxurious vine outside. In her heart, however, were discordant notes to which she was listening, having no ear for other sounds, were they ever so melodious.
"Lillian," she said, at last, "did you reject George St. Clair this morning?"
"I did, Mother."
"You did?"
"Yes, I did."
The daughter spoke quietly and calmly, but Mrs. Belmont arose hurriedly from the chair and stood before her.
Lillian did not quail before the burning look which was fixed upon her, but returned it with a determined gaze, out of which pity and filial affection beamed their gentle rays.
"Child! child! this must not—cannot be! I command you to recall him. It is not too late. He loves you, and would, without doubt, overlook this unparalleled freak of foolishness in which you have been so unaccountably indulging. Recall him, Lillian; your whole future happiness depends upon it."
"You are mistaken, Mother; I never could have been happy had I accepted that true, noble heart, and given in exchange my poor broken and divided one, and certainly he never could have taken me into his great love after knowing me as I am, which he surely must have done, or I, at least, would have been eternally wretched."
"You did not tell him?" was the quick inquiry.
"I told him thatI was a wife. That my heart was forever bound up in those matrimonial vows still unsevered, and that I loved him as a brother, and no more."
"You are mad! a fool! You know not what you do," and trembling with excitement she sank back on the chair from which she had risen.
Lillian did not speak or move, but tears came welling up through the freshly opened wounds in her poor heart, and filled her large pensive eyes with their bitter moisture.
Again the mother spoke.
"I feel disposed, just now, to enlighten you a little in regard to your future prospects if you persist in this silly sentimental mood, which you seem to think so becoming! I have striven hard to keep it from you and your brother for many years, and to surround you with every luxury your inherited station really demanded. More than this, I have planned, wrought, and guided with true maternalskill and instinct the fortunes of you both in such a manner that you might, if you would, ever retain your enviable position in the social world, for which I have exerted myself to fit you."
"I do not understand you, Mother. Be merciful and enlighten me, as you offered to do."
"Yes, I will; but you will not find much mercy in it. Know, then, that we are not owners of this beautiful estate. On the contrary, it was mortgaged to the father of George St. Clair by your own father some time before his death. Think, if you can, of the long years of toil I have experienced since that time, and ask if you are right in pulling down about our heads the whole structure of prosperity and affluence that I have been so long in building."
"I discern your intricate plans, my Mother, and pity you."
"Pity me? Do you then persist in your folly? I have proven to you then that it is in your power to avert this ruin! Mr. St. Clair told me not long since that Rosedale would eventually belong to his son, and he was happy to feel quite sure that my daughter would share it with him. I cannot much longer keep the Gorgon from devouring us! All we can then call our own will be the negroes, and these, without doubt, will depreciate much in value if the anticipated war of the North really comes upon us! Decide Lillian! Tell me that you will accede to my wishes in recalling George St. Clair! That northern mud-sill has, without doubt, long before this returned to his native element. He is dead to you—as wholly, truly so as though you had never been guilty of so great an indiscretion!" Lillian started to her feet.
"Mother, one question! Did you not receive a letter from my aunt in Philadelphia not many months ago saying that my husband had risen high in the estimation of the people and was true to his early vows? Has that information ever been contradicted? I read in the pallor of your face that it has not! His heart beats as truly for me to-day as it did sixteen years ago—and I amhis wife! He is the father of my sweet Lily-bud, and this bond can never be severed! No, no! I cannot, Iwill not, wed another!"
"The curse of the heart-broken then rest upon you!" She had moved away with rapid steps while speaking, and although Lillian reached out her hand imploringly the stately figure disappeared through the open door. O the speechless agony of the next hour! O the suffering in that lonely, sad, luxurious chamber! All the misery of her eventful life came rushing over her! Spectral thoughts, that she had supposed were long since banished forever, haunted her brain! How vivid and real they now appeared in this new darkness. Then the future! Where was the black hand of destiny to lead her? Even now she could see it reaching out its bony fingers from among the mysteries that enveloped her hidden path! The thick folds of an interminable gloom seemed to have fallen about her, and everywhere she beheld that "mother's curse" written in letters of fire! A rap was heard on the door and she arose mechanically and turned the key. Soon the sound of a heavy tread was heard along the hall—then down the winding staircase and lost in the distance. It was Tezzie, and she was alone again! By and by the echoes of music and laughter camefloating up through the open window and mingled harshly with the dreariness which pervaded that silent chamber! There was a merry group in the spacious drawing-room before the dinner hour arrived. Where was the wretched mother? Could it be that those rigid features which disappointment, consternation and rage had blanched with their inhuman concoctions was covered with a mask of conviviality and pleasure? Lillian wept! It was well that tears came at last or the poor brain would have become parched with the fever of its wild despair! The sunshine at last departed from the window and night let down its black, silken curtains around a weary tumultuous world. O, how many hearts sink helplessly beneath their weight of woe, crushing under it the joy from the outside world with its wealth of pomp and gaiety! Yet there are those who, when the day departs, throw aside the sackcloth with which they hide their misery and come with all their sorrows to the feet of Him whose smiles alone have the power to dispel their gloom. Lillian did not know how to pray! In all her years of perplexity and doubt she had not reached out her hand to the only one who could have led her safely out of it all. Now her heart called for something it had not yet divined, but the perplexed soul was wistfully gazing upward through the thick clouds that drooped so closely about her, and a feeble wail issued from beneath the sombre darkness. Another low tap was heard on the door which again aroused her. There had been many during the hours of her self-imprisonment, but she had not heeded them. However, a low, sweet voice penetrated her solitude and fell with soothing cadence upon her ear.
"It's Auntie, honey—open the door, poor lamb;" and Lillian's quick step revealed the willingness with which she complied. The faithful old slave came in and the door was relocked.
"What fo' you killin' yo'self here all alone, honey? I know'd dar was trouble all day and I just been askin' de good Lord to take care of you; but I did want to come and see if he'd done it—poo' lamb!" Aunt Vina had drawn her chair close to the side of Lillian, and the weary head with its heavy weight of sorrow had fallen upon the shoulder of her faithful friend. "Dar—bress you honey—cry all yo' trouble out. Dat's de way de bressed Lord helps us to get rid on 'em. By an' by sweet lamb He'll wipe 'em all away; den ye'll hab no mo' sorrow, honey, bress de Lord!"
"But I have now more than I can bear! You don't know what a terrible load I am being crushed beneath!"
"I know a good deal, chile. Missus told me to-day dat you wouldn't marry Massa St. Clair, and she 'spects you was pinin' at somethin' she said! I axed her if I might come and see you and she didn't care, but wanted I should make you ''bey yo' mudder'; now de Lord knows better dan she do."
"Did she tell you that she cursed me? O—Auntie! I could bear all the rest, even the miserable future she has pictured to me; but it is dreadful to carry through life the terrible burden of a mother's curse."
"Neber you min', honey; de Lord'll pay no 'tention to such cussin', an' it won't hurt ye a bit, if ye don't keep thinkin' on it. Why can't ye tell Him all about it, poor chile, den t'row it all away?He'll take good care ob it, sure, and it won't hurt you."
"Do you believe, Aunt Vina, that God cares anything about me? Would He listen if I should ask Him to take my cause into His hands?"
"Sartin He would, honey. He lubs you ten times mo' dan old auntie, and wouldn't she take ebery bit ob it if she could?"
The rough hand of the slave woman touched with soft caress the tear-stained cheek that was resting so near her own, and the cheering words fell into her aching heart with a soothing influence.
"Pray for me, Auntie, and I will try to do as you have bidden. The road is very dark and gloomy where my faltering feet are standing, but it may be as you say, that God will drive it all away."
"O bress de Lord, bress de Lord! Auntie knows ye'll fin' it. Never mind nothin', go tell Him eberythin', and see how de dark will all go 'way. Dar, honey; old Vina'll go and get ye a good cup o' tea, and bring in de lamp and make it more cheery like. De good Lord'll take care ob de lamb!"
"Where is Grace?" was the plaintive query.
"O Miss Grace, she's 'most crazy 'bout you. I seed her alone in de little arbor cryin' dreadful awhile ago; but den she puts 'em 'way quick, and her pretty face looks all happy agin. She was singin' at de pianner when I come up."
"Tell her, Auntie, not to come to me until to-morrow. I wish to be left alone to-night. You may bring me a cup of tea, then tell Agnes that I shall not want her," was the pleading wail of the sorrowing heart as the slave woman disappeared on her errand of love and tenderness.
Fold thy wings lovingly over the bowed form of the humble suppliant, O angel of pity, for the Father hears the cry of his suffering children; not one ever pleaded in vain, and Lillian prayed!
Park Scene
"Give me that paper." (See page 153)."Give me that paper." (See page 153).
It was not until late the next day that Lillian granted the oft repeated request of her cousin to be allowed to come to her, and not a moment was lost ere the two friends were together.
"It was cruel in you, my sweet Lillian, to banish me so long, but how ill you look," and Grace Stanley clasped her arms about the dear form and kissed the pale cheek tenderly.
"You are mistaken, pretty cousin, in my general appearance, for I have not been so well in a long time. In fact, your 'poor despondent cousin' is almost happy to-day."
Lillian was looking into the face of her companion while her pure liquid eyes were overflowing with the new-found joy that was filling her heart.
"I have been troubled, Grace. Yesterday a heavy wave rolled over me, that came near burying your 'Lily Bell' beneath it. But it has passed on, and I was left out of the tempest, and a hand reached out to hold me as I was going down beneath the roaring billows. At any rate I am standing firm to-day, and have no fears of winds or storms. Somehow I feel secure in the belief that I shall be shielded and brought through it all," and the fair head drooped for awhile on her hand, and the joyful tears came and baptised afresh hertrembling new-born hope. Grace had no word of trust to lay on the altar of consecration, and could only sit at the feet of her who was casting her all upon it, and be silent.
"Forgive me cousin, my heart and thoughts have been straying. I wanted to talk with you that I might, if possible, break the last cord that binds me so tenaciously to the dark scenes of the past that I would bury forever."
"Are you able, Lillian, to bear the agitation such a conversation would subject you to?" interposed Grace, with much feeling. "It would make me very happy to know you had opened wide the door of your poor heart and taken me into its sacred places, yet I would not give you the slightest needless pain."
"Thoughtful as ever, darling; but I feel quite sufficient for the task. Yesterday you heard me tell George St. Clair of my marriage, and how my mother came to the city and influenced me to go with her. No doubt you think it strange, as he did, that no greater effort has been made by my husband to reclaim his lost bride. I could not tell him all, the old habitual fear made me silent. I am free to-day, and my confidence is unfettered. No power could have kept him but the one this guilty hand set up between us."
"You, Lillian?"
"Yes, Grace, I did it. Not willingly, not quite consciously, yet I did it."
Grace looked puzzled, and her bright eyes were fixed intently on the sweet face she so loved, then she said, "Go on."
"It was the night before our departure from Philadelphia when, seeing the postman coming down the street, I ran out to meet him, for something seemed to tell me he had a letter that would gladden my poor heart. I was not mistaken. It was from Pearl, and O what a wealth of love it contained. He would be at home in a week. The business that had called him away was almost finished. 'Then, dearest,' he added, 'no king was ever more ecstatic over his crown than I shall be with my own pure Lily.'"
"'Pure!' How that word thrust itself home to my poor quivering heart. I had run with the precious missive to my room, and there, as the evening shades settled down about me, I raved in my agony with the madness of delirium.I would not leave him!Alone that night I would fly into the darkness leaving behind me forever those who would tear me from him. By and by my mother came in with her soft, soothing tones, she pitied and caressed me. It was not at all strange, she said, that I, a child, should struggle in the arms of wisdom. I was weak now, but by-and-by I could walk alone, then would come her reward. She was laboring for my good only, and when I could look at it I calmly would bless her for it. We would go to England, where my father's relatives were living, and she would cause pleasure to fall around me as bountiful as summer rain. After a few years of travel and study, if I then should find my heart still clinging to its 'imaginary' love, I should return to the object of my tried devotion. O how gradually but surely did my silly heart yield to this sophistry! In a few hours I was her submissive tool. The fascination of a European tour, thepictures of Parisian frivolities, and the glitter of pomp and fashion in the society into which I might plunge and come forth sparkling with its polished gems for all future adorning, captured my bewildered senses and stilled my whirling brain. In the morning we were to start on our journey, would I like to leave a few words for him who would probably for a while grieve at my absence and mourn over his disappointment? It would not, however, last long, such troubles never do with these of his sex, she said, and I should not certainly make myself uncomfortable about it. Nothing could be more to my wishes, and then I was told that she had written a short letter which I had better copy, as my head was not clear enough to think intelligently. It would help him to forget his disappointment and make him happy, just as I wished him to be. Othat letter!I can only give you its purport; that I can never forget. It told him that terrible falsehood that I went from him willingly believing it not only to be my duty, but better for us both. Then it went on to say that I had come to the conclusion since his absence, that my affections were fleeting with my childhood; but if in after years I found that I was mistaken I would frankly write and tell him so; until then I wished he would not try to see or hear from me. Georgia would not be a pleasant place for a northern 'abolitionist' like himself to visit, and should he presume upon so rash an act, I had no doubt my mother would not fail to incense the people against him, and pleaded that for my sake he would not attempt it. He might have suspected the origin of that infamous epistle, had not a cunning brain devised and executed it. O Grace, dear Grace!how can you hold that perjured hand so closely in your own?"
"It is pure and white my Lily Bell; no sin-stain mars its beauty. Heart and hand are free from such implications. But you told him also that you were going to Europe?"
"O, yes, and that it would be uncertain when we should return. We went as anticipated the next morning, taking with us one hired servant. This seemed strange to me at that time, as I supposed we were to return to our southern home immediately and would need no one if this be so. I soon found, however, our route lay in a different direction. I cannot tell where we spent the summer months, but it was in a small cottage in a wild, dreary place not so far from human habitation but that Margeret could go twice a week in a few hours to procure the necessities on which we subsisted. The first of October we left this retreat where I had spent so many wretched hours under the surveillance of my mother, and after two days of tiresome travel by private carriage and cars we arrived at the seashore. There we took possession of a summer residence on a high cliff that overlooked the water, which showed signs of not having been long vacated. Here in less than three weeks I became a mother! Can I tell you about it? O the terrible suspicions that arise in my poor brain as I remember that scene! Only once did I look on my sweet lily bud! I cannot make you understand the rapture of that moment! It wasmine—it washis! How I longed that he should see our beautiful flower; and then I said 'her name shall be Lily-Pearl, and that shall be the inseparable tie between us.' I was very illfor a long time they told me, and when my fluttering life came back with its full powers I was informed that my beautiful bud had withered and died and lay sleeping in the elegant robe my hands had taken such pleasure in forming. Grace—God forgive me if I impute wrong to the innocent; but here in the presence of Him into whose hands I have committed my cause I assert my belief that the terrible blow that came near severing the brittle, trembling thread of life was a base fabrication and that my child is not dead!"
"Lillian! Lillian! I know it is a dreadful accusation, but listen! You know I was in London five years and then my mother came for me. In one year more we returned home. Not many weeks after my arrival I was passing through the east hall when little Tommy came running to me with a folded paper in his hand. He said he had picked it up from the floor and I took it. It proved to be a letter written to my mother without date or signature. It was hardly legible, for it was evident that the hand by which it was written was unused to the pen. The writer, however, complained of neglect and said the bargain made in regard to the child had not been complied with; that she was worthless to them, and if the three hundred dollars did not come soon my mother must find another place for her.What child canmy mother possibly have any interest in? Something further was said about her being six years old which I could not make out. A terrible conviction took possession of me!This was my child! My Lily!And who knows but ere this she has been sent out into the world in default of this paltry three hundred! Goaded by my suspicions Irushed into the presence of my mother with that mysterious paper burning in my hand! 'What is this?Whatdoes it mean?Whatchild is the heartless wretch talking about?' I almost gasped so ungovernably did my brain reel beneath the weight of this fearful apprehension. Never shall I forget the look that greeted me! She was standing before the mirror in her dressing-room as I entered, but turned quickly as my tremulous voice fell upon her ear. Her face was as pale and livid as the marble statuette near which she was standing, while her eyes flashed with the inward fire she vainly endeavored to conceal. 'Give me that paper!' she demanded with extended hand; 'how did you come by it?' 'Tell me first!' I exclaimed; 'who is the childspoken of in it? Imust—Iwillknow!' She stared wildly at me, while a ghastly smile spread itself over her pallid features and suddenly her voice sank to a low musical cadence peculiar to herself as you well know, Grace, and somehow it has never failed to bring my most stubborn will in meek subjection to her feet. 'Lillian, my child,' she said; 'whyare you so much agitated? Compose yourself; such fits of anger is not at all becoming! The story of the child in whom you seem so much interested is a very short one. I should have confided it to you long ago, if by so doing I would not have been obliged to reveal a secret which I could not have told with honor. I will now, however, satisfy your curiosity in a measure. You know that I have both relatives and friends in Savannah, one of these had a daughter who a few years ago became a mother of an illegitimate child; of course the mortification must be hidden if possible fromthe world, and much against my will I became an accomplice in the affair. This is the one alluded to in that document you hold so tenaciously in your hand. Now give it to me and forget the subject altogether.' She reached for it, and with her eyes gazing steadily into mine took it from me and walked with a firm tread through an opposite door, leaving me standing alone conquered but not convinced. Do not think harshly of me, dear Grace, I know my mother is your beloved aunt, and for this reason I confide in you. I would not let my suspicions loose upon the world, but something has whispered to me many times since that day that Lily did not die in her infancy, and can you imagine my agony when I realize that now she may be homeless and friendless, or what is equally dreadful to me surrounded perhaps with evil associations growing up into womanhood unlovely and unloved?" The head of the agitated Lillian sank down on the shoulder of her companion, and clasped in each other's arms the two mingled their tears of sorrow and sympathy. During all this time Lillian had spoken kindly of the cause of all this treachery and guilt! She was dealing with the great sad past—unclasping it link by link from her present and future as one throws off accumulated burdens when preparing for laborious action. She had secretly before this laid them all at the feet of Him who had said, "cast thy burdens on the Lord and he will sustain thee." His promises she felt were true and she expected to be assisted over the road that seemed stretching itself among the thick shadows farther than her faith could penetrate.
A few hours before this conversation when alone with her blessed Saviour she had said with quivering lips and wildly throbbing heart: "Forgive the poor wailing cry, for I cannot hush its sobbings! Rachel wept for her children and would not be comforted—my child is not—not dead, or the mother love would cease its calling," and then she prayed: "Thou who noticest the fall of a little sparrow watch over and protect my Lily! Shield her—lead her in a path where I may find her."
Did the Father hear?
Autumn came at last. The heart of the great Republic throbbed with unsteady pulsation, and, every nerve in the body politic thrilled with excitement as the looked-for crisis drew near. There were faint whisperings in each breeze, so low at first that every ear was strained to the uttermost tension to catch the vibrating strains, but soon they became louder and louder until the foundations of peace and prosperity were shaken to their very center. "War, war!" It was talked of everywhere. In the salon, in the dining hall, not even were the parlor and boudoir exempt from the unwelcome sounds. The politicians discussed it over their wine, and unfledged aspirants for fame probed the bare possibilities in secret conclaves. Ebony forms crowded beneath windows and balconies with eyes and lips protruded, eager to catch the mysterious meaning of the universal subject, "war!" Aristocracy in the brilliant halls of pleasure and revelry saw the strange hand appear and the finger writing upon the wall. How flushed cheeks paled, and rosy lips changed to ashy hue, and how knees smote together with fear. "War! war!" A cloud, dark and murky, rolled up from the horizon full of terrible mutterings, and loaded with death and devastation, moving steadily onward, until thebroad clear sky was covered, and the rays that had so long fallen upon a prosperous people were shut out, and shadows deep and portentous drooped their heavy folds about the agitated nation. Mothers all over the land gazed through blinding tears upon their noble sons, who stood with elevated brows around the home fires. Wives thrust back their true devotion into the secret chambers of agonized hearts, and pressed more closely the pallid lips, and remained silent.
Perhaps there was not another in the whole land who was more bitter towards those who had caused these preparations of calamity than was Mrs. Belmont. True, she had her own ideas who these were, as well as all others throughout both sections of the Republic. Having been for so many years upheld in her present position of luxury and ease by sable hands, it was no very agreeable prospect, surely, to discover a mere possibility that they might at some future time be giving way beneath her.
The lady of Rosedale with her son and daughter had been in the habit of spending several weeks during the winter in Savannah, but now her arrangements for the season were materially changed, Lillian having gone to New Orleans with her cousin Grace for an unlimited time, the mother and son would go immediately without her.
The cloud had never disappeared from the family horizon since that eventful day when George St. Clair left Rosedale a rejected lover. The daughter would not recall him with a promise of her love or her hand, and consequently the shadow of her mother's anger hung over her, dark and gloomy. There were no filial tears shed at parting,nor were there words of regret, or even one sweet, maternal kiss. How sad, how very sad, that such things must be. Can human love die? That healthful seed which God planted so tenderly in every heart to make life endurable as well as beautiful with its buds and blossoms—can all this ever be rooted up? True, its flowers may wither, its bright green leaves may fade and fall, its tender stalks even be broken, but the roots, the deeply imbedded roots—theycan never, never die. Smother them with cruelties and wrongs, if you will, bury them beneath the accumulated rubbish of selfishness and misconduct, there will come a time when the warm sunshine of tender memories and the soft dews of genial affections, which the hand of divinity shall scatter over it, will bring forth fresh shoots from the hidden life of the heart's immortal love.
No, it cannot die; or why did Mrs. Belmont hurry into her private apartment, as soon as the sound of the rolling wheels that were bearing her daughter from her was lost in the distance, to give vent there to pent up tears? It might have been remorse, it is true, for the last look on that pale face, as Lillian waved her adieus from the carriage window, would not leave her. There were tears also on Aunt Vina's cheeks, although she endeavored to hide them, amid her merry laughter, as she took off her well-worn shoe to throw after her departing darling. But Lillian felt that there was more good luck in her parting words and benediction than in this. "De good Lord bress ye, honey, and bring ye back to poo' old Vina!"
"Pray for me, Auntie, while I am gone," was the feeble response from the sore and aching heart.
"Dat I will ebery day, sartin! And don't ye mind nothin'! Just ye be happy; dat's all!"
But there came an hour when the warm sunshine gathered up its little gems of joy from out the poor twisted life of the humble slave, and left the heart bleeding beneath the gloomy shadows where it had been stricken. No one knew how it came about—but one bright morning when the orange groves were full of birds, who had arrived from their northern homes before the wintry blasts had reached them, little Shady was found in the store-house lying beneath a huge bale of cotton quite dead! The overseer "had seen him frolicking like a kitten among them and told him not to climb to the top one, as he seemed inclined to do;" and that was all that could be revealed of the sad story! It was night now to old Vina! Nowhere in her desolate heart could she find the sweet balm she had so often poured into the wounds of other's griefs. Above her shone no star with silvery ray to light up the dark despair! Grief has many fangs, all sharp and poisonous and hard to be borne as they pierce through the sensitive nerves of the human heart; but some strike deeper than others, letting out the very life of the soul and flooding the secret chambers with the malaria of woe! Aunt Vina felt all this when at last the little form she had so loved and cherished was laid away in its cheerless bed among the buttonwood trees, where her hand could reach him no more with its cheery good-night. What was there now to keep her tired feet from faltering by the way, or her heart from sinking under its weight of life's sorrows? When the last sod was laid tenderly on the little grave, and "Parson Tom" had said inhis most solemn tones "de Lord gabe and de Lord hab taken away; and bressed be de name ob de Lord," she turned away from it all with no responsive "bress de Lord" bubbling up through the torn fissures of her bleeding heart, and sought her accustomed place by the kitchen grate. Without a tear or moan she sank down upon a chair, her head drooping low upon her broad chest, sitting there as motionless and still as though the lamp of her existence had also been blown out. In vain did dark forms gather about her with their tears of sympathy and words of condolence and love! She heeded them not! The soft, warm beams of the noonday sun came in through the door and gathered themselves about her bowed form, but she moved not. When the shadows of night crept in she arose and stole away into the thick darkness of her chamber to pray alone! No eye but His who wept tears of sympathy at the tomb of Lazarus witnessed the agony that night of the poor heart-broken slave. No ear but His who will wipe away all tears listened to the moans and prayers that were borne upward on the wings of departing night from that humble chamber! God heard them, however, and a register was made in that book which is to be opened on that great day of accounts when one more spotless robe of white was ready for her who had "come up through much tribulation!"
The next morning, earlier than usual, Aunt Vina appeared in her accustomed place. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes sunken, yet she moved about with steady step gathering up every trace of her lost darling, burning the few scattered blocks he had brought in that sad day he went outto come in no more, throwing far back into the dark closet the tattered hat and much-used whip, as if by so doing she could hide the sorrow that was eating away her life. And thus she labored on.
The house was indeed empty now! "Pete" had gone with his young master, and Emily, the particular favorite of her mistress, was with her in Savannah, and poor Aunt Vina turned her heart's longings towards the absent Lillian. "If she was only here," she would say over and over again; "de wee lamb! De Lord knows how to pity dem dat lub Him!"
"And don't you lub Him, Vina?" asked the kind old preacher, who strove in his feeble way to comfort the bereaved one.
"Yes—yes—brudder Tom; but somehow dese old eyes can't see out straight. He was all that was left; it seems as how I might hab dat one little head to lie on dis lone bosom! It won't be long 'fore I shall be 'tro wid it all—and it wouldn't 'a' hurt nothin' if he been lef till I went home!" Tears mingled with her sobs as she bewailed her loneliness.
"De Lord say 'come unto me when tired and can't find nowhere for de sole ob de foot, and He will gib you rest;" and the good man laid his ebony hand on the bowed head as he spoke.
"Don't I know it, brudder Tom? He's all right; but it's hard to bress de Lord when He makes it so dark; maybe by and by old Vina can look up! If Miss Lillian was hereshewould tell me how."
How many have thus bent beneath the rod as they hid the light of faith from them, "refusing to be comforted" when the pitying Father was soready to bind up the heart His careful love had wounded? "Before I was stricken I went astray" is the testimony of many a happy soul. The clouds are about us but the sun shines above them all.
Lillian was gone and Rosedale somehow seemed deserted and dreary. Perhaps it was because the flowers were all withered and nature seemed going to sleep; at any rate Mrs. Belmont and her son concluded to go to the city immediately, even should one or both of them be obliged to return to the plantation during Christmas week.
"The servants always expect their holiday gifts, and it would be too bad to disappoint them," so the mistress said, "but it is insufferable here!" Besides, Ellen St. Clair was to give a birthday entertainment in two or three weeks, and as everybody hinted the betrothal of the fair heiress with Charles Belmont it really did seem a necessity that he at least should be there. The mother of the young gentleman also was exceedingly desirous of satisfying herself upon this one point, not feeling quite as sure as the veracious "Mrs. Grundy." The reason being, no doubt, that the said son, who had inherited from the maternal side an abundance of the very commendable element of secretiveness, did not seem at all disposed to satisfy any one in regard to the matter asheunderstood it. Neither was the mother quite sure that he would from any cause be persuaded to sacrifice any of his self-will for her accommodation, for he was fully aware that her heart was unswervingly set on this union. Thus she was kept in ignorance which she was determined should, if possible, be dispelled. All these thingswere taken into consideration by the intriguing mother—and the son, not at all averse to the arrangements, the next week found Aunt Vina sole mistress of the great house at Rosedale.
Little Shady was in high spirits. Every day the hall door was thrown wide open for the free circulation of fresh air, then such a scrambling up the broad stairs on all fours and such rapid rides down the heavy balustrades! "Bress de chile! Can't see no hurt no how! Missus say she lick him, but she don't see him!" and the good old grandmother turned her own head that her eyes might not be at fault in the matter. The love for this child was all the earth-spot the withered old heart contained. All of her children, not excepting her last, the mother of little Shady, had been taken from her, some by death, others by the greedy hands that snapped the tenderest cords of the human hearts that its own mercenary ends might be reached. "But it's a mercy dat I'se got dis one," she would often repeat to herself as if not quite sure of her resignation in the matter. Certain it was that the merry gambols of the frolicsome boy as her loving eyes followed him through the day, and the joy of feeling his plump arms around her neck at night, shut out in a great measure the dark agonizing past from her view.
Outside of the elegant appointments of the home and its surroundings all was left as usual in the hands of the overseer, who was expected to administer kindness and justice with wisdom, if not with discretion; but as Pete had often said in the quiet of Aunt Vina's kitchen fire, "Massa Firey and old Tige look jist like 's do' day was brudders," and as to disposition and characters itcould not be disputed that they were similar. Still, at the "quarters" he was not only feared but regarded with a kind of respect and awe. Three weeks passed away and little had been thought of the dark cloud spreading itself over the nation, for "Massa Firey" said nothing to those under his care, if indeed he knew what was really going on in the outside world.
There was plenty of work in the cotton-fields, for Mrs. Belmont had said before her departure that Charles would want some money and the product of the plantation must be put into the market as soon as it was open. Shady was in high glee, snapping his whip at some imaginary intruder about the extensive grounds or rolling his hoop, when the sweet voice of the child would steal in through the open windows and doors into Aunt Vina's kitchen, awaking the worn-out melodies of her own heart which would come forth in answering chorus. A little curly head was often thrust in through some aperture near, when the song would suddenly change as the dark eyes sparkled with mock terror at the words caught from the sabbath services,