Works of Annie Fields
Annie Fields
ASPHODEL.
"Quinci si va chi vuole andar per pace."
DANTE.BOSTON.
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
1866
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
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INTRODUCTION.
IT is a fortunate lot to be born in New England; to find one's self stepping from the cradle out into the fore world of thought, stirred by breezes fresh with the freedom of humanity; to know that a hope rises with the morning for every one of her children, to set only in the night of those earth-sorrows, which the rich and poor, the wise and foolish, of all lands, may experience alike, in accordance with the divine economy of God. And for these, His chosen ones, the light of faith forever shines, breaking in glory upon the mountains of the future. The child of New England looks toward the East, saying, Now is the high noon of the world; we will bid farewell to the mists of earlier hours, and lands overladen by the history of ages, gathering from these what we need, but leaving the rest to decay upon the parent soil. Hope and experience shall here be planted together, that, our growth may be lusty, and the vast tree wave its benediction to the sunset. The old world bends a slow, wise smile over these youthful ardors, but the look is kindly; perhaps it is born of the knowledge that he who conceives daringly shall not achieve sparingly; perhaps the smile is tempered by the thought that all mortal conception is the germ of immortal fruition, upon which another sun shall beam, if not his own.
Herbert Gregory's reflections, which we have endeavored to express, however imperfectly, ran somewhat into this same channel of pride and satisfaction with his native land, as he passed through the college grounds, one early autumn afternoon, toward his father's house. He had just come back from a tour through Europe, the immediate sequence of his academic career, and with the benefit of travel on one hand, and the happiness of return on the other, it was not a cause for astonishment that he should appreciate, with a far keener sense than ever before, the bounties and significance of his home. To the untravelled, if Herbert had been tempted at this time to unfold his feeling to any such, we can fancy the dispraise of wandering as affecting his listener with a kind of disgust, or even doubt of his sincerity, perhaps, with something of the same feeling which young readers have, when attempting to enjoy the translation of a classic, the favorite with their learned teacher, who delights himself daily over the original, while his pupils toil wearily as through stubble-land, perplexed by the enthusiasm they see inspired. But Herbert had just quitted his friend Russell, now soberly enough settled at home in connection with the University. His European experience was an affair of the past, yet Herbert was pleased to discover that Russell agreed with him perfectly in regard to the superior incentive (and therefore the superior advantage of life in America. It was possible that the simple old library, with its spacious window-seats, and broad windows looking out among the pines, the crackling logs on the hearth, and Edith's chair beside the fire, where she had been sitting with them that autumn afternoon, had some slight influence upon Russell's opinion, expressed decidedly in disfavor of American youth who give their valuable time to European travel; but whatever the reason might be, it was doubtless sufficiently good, since it was sincere. It was a favorite idea, also, with Russell, although an eccentric one, that even the romance writer could find no better groundwork and material than New England affords. "Where," he would say, enthusiastically, "where can Spring tread more daintily than here! If we wait long for her, there is a rapture when she is at length unveiled, which the March anemones of the Pamfili Doria or the velvet green of England might well envy. And Summer, too, a season of rich surprises, with days which seem to be swept from the Orient, when the whole atmosphere palpitates, and man and beast yield to the midnight stillness of noon; and those other days, in quick succession, when the air breathes of icebergs, and the sky is pale pellucid blue from dawn till dark, when suddenly with another morning come the clouds, and rain, and odors of the sea, brought inland on the wings of northeast gales; and afterward Autumn, with the unspeakable splendors of his drapery; and Winter, with snow and firelight, long and dreary enough, except for the Fortunate Islands of home; -- what more than these could a new enchanter desire?"
This ready eloquence of Russell, which he did not hesitate to express to his friend in the somewhat florid manner we have indicated, naturally served to confirm Herbert in the opinion he had already formed. Nor did the sentiment of patriotism, if we may dignify his half-developed feeling by such a name, grow less, but rather stronger, when, after a year or two of drifting in waves of uncertainty with regard to his career, he at last established his own library-fireside at "The Cliff," where, a few years having passed, we find him with his wife Alice and his children, -- the stately ship of life riding with safety in its serene harbor, held fast by the divine anchorage of home.
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MORNING.
IT was a dawn of Spring. The early breezes catching the whisper of Day in the far east, awoke the sleepers of the world before his beams appeared, waving and swaying the cool mists which overlay the face of the dry earth, as the wind may play with and flutter the facecloth of the dead. But soon the solemn morning purpled and broadened into heaven-wide circles, until at length it bloomed upon the sky, a vast rose-garden of Divinity. As in our narrow household world a lady watches through the lucent doors of her home garden the purpling and widening, and. at length the rosy unfolding of the broad "Azalia splendens," so, for all Nature and the world of humanity, blossomed the slow morning, and widened into the beauty of broad day.
There was no mist in the soul of Alice Gregory when she awoke, only the full strength of the morning of love; but as the fatal clouds which obscure the sun often arise after a clear unveiling of his beams, so came her afterthought, and the memory of approaching separation. Herbert was that day to leave her for a sea-voyage, in search of health (the true talisman of this world's good, which had been shorn from him by the modern Delilah, Overwork), and his early hour of departure was at hand. She arose hastily, and, while she gathered her abundant hair, memory came to tell her that thus far only the lights of life had shone upon her; to-day its shadows would fall, and a touch of the white frost of care, which leaves silver threads in dark clusters such as she was then binding together, would mark their advent. Yet even these white threads, she remembered, serve to lead us in safety, with uplifted eyes, through the difficult passages of the world, out into a purer existence.
Clamorous nursery cries aroused her. She opened the door leading to her children's room, and found them already impatient to accompany her to the beach. She had promised this happiness, with her bedside kiss, the night before. She knew all children are happy on a beach; it is their eternal wonder-world.
"Your father is going away, far away," she said, gently stilling their turbulence with a quiet manner native to her, "come with me to the shore now, children, and see his little boat."
They ran eagerly to her side, and danced about her footsteps as she descended. Herbert was at the water's edge before them, watching the safe conveyance to the ship of box and bag carefully prepared by Alice. He did not perceive her approach, until the clear voices of his children warned him; then he started, as if with pain; but in a moment turned upon them with a warm, strong smile, such as had made the daily sunshine of his wife. Already she seemed to feel its brightness pale, and her own responsive beams to fade as dreams depart before one hastily awakened. He did not speak to her, but seized their boy, according to his morning custom, kissed his cheeks, and puzzled him by crying, "Here is honey-dew!" while Ernest clung closely to him, ready for the wildest frolic. Allegra, on the contrary, timid and tender as a spring violet, stood half hidden in her mother's skirts.
The little group waited a few moments by the shore, listening for the sound of the returning oars to break the stillness. Soon the dip and gurgle were distinctly heard, and shortly after the red shirts of the boatmen gleamed in the mist, and the keel grated on the sand. Last words were few, for tears shone in the eyes of Alice, and Herbert dared not speak either for himself or her; but the children's voices were now busy in a strange refrain of laughter, making the desolation of parting appear more profound than before. As he sprang lightly into the boat, little Ernest leaving his play ran towards him, shouting, "Papa, I'm a big boy now, let me go, too," but the oarsmen had already shoved away from the shore, and the rays of the newly risen sun were shooting their busy shuttles through the mist and fringes of the rippling waves, until with each oar-stroke the boat seemed to lose itself in a glamour impenetrable at last to the dazzled eyes of Alice.
Then she turned away, and calling the children, walked toward her home. As she ascended the cliff, she saw the distant sea was calm, and the fresh blue was waking on its face. But the slow waves breaking below her feet; the knoll radiant with dew-strung grass, upon which she stood; the garden gate; and the blooming, swaying branches above her head, -- brought a deeper meaning in their loveliness to-day, eloquent of the happy, unreturning past. Soon she found herself under the broad awning of the hospitable piazza, whence she gazed wistfully out, hoping to see the departing ship. For a moment it was possible to discern the filling sails; then the winds seemed to bear the winged thing suddenly out of the world into the golden chambers of the East.
Alice looked abroad over the earth then, and watched the day. The dew of youth, and the mystery of morning had fled, and the approaching sun of noon was ripening the dim purpose they foreshadowed. It lighted the sharp edges of the world, and gave her pain, until she saw the great rocks of Love and Friendship fling their broad and kindly shadows over her weary land. How beautiful her morning had been! She asked herself, "Shall not the noon, too, be lustrous with its skies of deeper blue and fruit sunned by beams of the Orient, even though watered well by the storm-days of life?"
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FRIENDSHIP.
ALICE ceased gazing at the wide horizon, now shut down silently over the absent one, silently as shuts the veil of death when the play of life is ended; then she entered the house through the long, low windows of the library. The place was redolent of flowers; heaps on heaps lay in one tangled dewy mass upon the table where Herbert had evidently thrown them, knowing this early morning labor would find due appreciation. Wild-wood favorites rifled from deep hidden nooks, garden companions, and the common wayside friends lay together in beautiful and unwonted proximity.
"Mamma," cried Ernest, who was standing by, eager to see his mother's delight over this endless mass of blooms, "may Ally and I bring you the vase to put them in?" and, before she could reply, the two had scampered off, and were again on the threshold with their chubby hands clenched over the delicate alabaster of the pretty Warwick model, both staggering under the weight and responsibility.
"Now, children," said she, when the precious freight was safely landed at her feet, "run to the south room, and tell the lady who came last night, that papa has brought flowers, and mamma would like her to see them."
A gliding step on the doorway arrested the children in their second flight, and caused them to look timidly towards the lovely person whom their father had told them was to be their friend and teacher.
"Erminia," said Alice, after their morning salutation, "I remembered the habit of early rising which you acquired during our school days. It is not one easily relinquished, having been once thoroughly learned, and I was about to send the children to invite you to join me. I owe much to you, and not the least of my debts is a knowledge of those noble verses by Henry Vaughan, beginning,
'When first mine eyes unveil.'
Have you forgotten them?""No," said Erminia, as she rescued a blooming rose, entangled in a mass of Mitchella vine, "I love those verses still, and better that we first came to know each other, as it were, through them. But where shall I put this exquisite cluster?" and she held up, as she spoke, a little vase of flowers which her speedy fingers had already arranged.
"Surely that is beautiful enough for the western chamber," answered Alice; yet, while speaking of the vase, she looked chiefly at her friend, who never appeared to her more lovely. The slender group of lilies and roses, relieved against the deep blue of her dress; the sunshine streaming through her rich "Venetian" hair, causing the gold gleams hidden there to shine; and especially a sweet simplicity of manner, an unconsciousness which is the soul of beauty, made her inexpressibly lovely to Alice.
"That room is to be Russell's," she continued, "he is an old friend of Herbert, as you know well, and I wish his welcome to be kindly and affectionate at least, since his visit must needs be dull without his companion. His little daughter Fanny, who is her father's only earthly joy now, shall have the cabinet adjoining for her bedroom. Ernest, you may tell Marion to show the way to the west room, and arrange it for our guest."
Erminia heard Alice's directions for the comfortable establishing of Russell undisturbed by feeling of anxiety with regard to his arrival. She knew something of his character and history, and although she felt a sincere interest in his career, there seemed invincible barriers between them, which proximity must only widen. His genius (for the world worshipped it as such); his pride of family, and consequent position in society; the recent loss of a wife, lovely and beloved, eminent for talent and devotion to her home; the flattery of strangers, and caresses of private circles, -- all these things, contrasted with her own estranged and unregarded existence, made Erminia feel not only the distance between herself and Alice's distinguished guest, but she saw that the cares of her position would not be slight if she were able to fulfil the duties she desired to assume. Much of Alice's time would necessarily be occupied with him, she thought, or with the friends he attracted to the house. She determined, therefore, to make it her duty and pleasure not only to guard the children's welfare but to oversee the business of the household, so far as this should prove a possible and real service to Alice. These duties she felt would shelter her somewhat from the labor of receiving visitors, the present condition of her mind rendering her unfit for social enjoyment.
At this juncture of their lives the value of school friendship they had enjoyed became doubly apparent to Alice and Erminia. They were not obliged to grope blindly, while endeavoring to adapt themselves to each other. Alice felt the presence of her friend as a continual balm and consolation; while for Erminia left solitary in the world by her father's death, the delicate sympathies of her companion were ever ready to understand and shield her.
So different are the manifestations of grief, one could not easily divine from the appearance of Erminia that the floods of sorrow had gone over her. Habitually calm, and instructed under the watchful eye of her father, who lived the life of a recluse, she wore daily, over a spirit swayed by every wind of joy and every note of sorrow, a well-poised character, which enabled her to act without too great hesitation, and without subsequent regret; and where a superior judgment came to her assistance, she recognized its power and rejoiced in its repose. Her self-reliance became naturally more strongly accentuated when her earthly guide and instructor was withdrawn from her side. It veiled her from the eyes of the world, simply, yet as securely as the arts of Prospero could; and sometimes that was accounted to her as pride which was only the strength and height of true humility.
Erminia was scarcely twelve years old when her mother died, and two maiden aunts came to reside with her father and herself. They found the young girl somewhat restive under their unaccustomed restraints, and after a few passages at arms in which, to say the least, they were but poorly seconded by her father, they were convinced that the tasks of subduing the child and comprehending her parent's idea for her education transcended the limit of their ability. They willingly resigned the father and daughter, after a few months of endeavor, to a loneliness which was evidently far too agreeable to satisfy the afflicted vanity of the two ladies.
In truth it was an unspeakably happy pair. The child who appeared so wilful and wayward under uncongenial control became with her father, what he believed her to be, the most docile of pupils, and humble as a lover. She surprised him by her precocity in certain branches of education, in those especially which she had chosen; for he desired to give her a certain freedom of selection, provided the study, whatever it might be, were performed with integrity and vigor.
Such was their life, while the moons waxed and waned, and the child becamea woman, and the autumn grew to winter. At last a night shut down in which the silentness of death overspread the beloved features of the oldman, and Erminia was left solitary in the quiet cottage.
After a time she was able to recall the happy hours of devotion and faith she might never know again, and so companion her dim solitude. And then came the old school friendship for Alice, giving color to her life once more. That, indeed, was like a calm harbor always, in the tempestuous sea of years which seemed to outstretch before her.
In a letter to Alice, at this time, she wrote: "Seven years ago, upon your marriage day, I grieved and wept. In my girlish weakness, I feared I had lost something, being ignorant of the divine mystery of married love to enlarge the possibilities of life. After these years of experience I find how much I have gained, and when I think of you, I feel myself surrounded by loving hearts..….You may perhaps wonder when we meet to see me wearing none of the habiliments of grief, and I must anticipate your surprise by explaining that it was the wish of my dear father to banish such array. A woman folded in crape always made him shudder. 'That person throws a gloom over my day!' he would exclaim, 'Does she mean to closet herself with death, and receive no higher companionship? Do these people believe all the sorrow of the world belongs to them?'
"?Erminia,' he said, a few days before his death, when hardly conscious of his words, 'I remember how she looked the day I asked her. She did not say, "Yes," but turned her face away, and the quick blush stained her cheek far down till the ruffle hid it, and a tear dropped on her blue robe as she laid her hand in mine. Erminia, don't forget how much I like to see you wear blue; your mother wore blue!' I think, after this, he spoke little, but lay as if peacefully absorbed in reminiscence, until the last solemn hours, when he roused himself to discourse on holy themes.
"To-morrow I leave this old house. It seems like coldly forsaking all I love best; I suppose, the entire solitude is not good; at least so my aunts endeavor to persuade me, and for a time must yield my wish to theirs. But I can confide to no one the joys of the divine companionship I receive while walking in the paths he made, and following his vanished footsteps through the little wood. Here we are not separated; he draws me to his supreme height, and every leaf, and the enlightening rays of each expiring day seem like whisperings of his spirit close to mine.
"I hardly know how I have been enabled to say this, even to you, dear Alice, but it shall stand, that you may know when we meet and talk cheerfully on other themes, perhaps, that life has become possible, and my heart is at peace. Already received into the saints' rest through the love of my vanished one, my spirit cannot be disturbed by storms at any lower level.
"I shall soon return to this place, I cannot be away. Old Nancy clings to me as if I were her all, and will cajole blossoms into the dead garden before I see it again. Here she comes already with the first snowdrop. Farewell."
There were frequent letters between the two ladies subsequent to this; more frequent, perhaps, on the part of Erminia than of Alice, who found the cares and pre-occupations of her life too absorbing to make it easy to write often. Her delinquencies in this respect were made good, however, by a three days visit she found time to pay her friend in company with her husband and Russell and his wife.
What happy days they were! How often Erminia, afterward, sitting alone by her cottage window, overlooking the undulating meadows and the shifting shadows on the corn, would recall the sweet, pale face of Russell's wife, and his anxious loving glance; or at times would remember, less pensively, those long hours under the pines, when the new poem was first read which had since made Russell famous; his merry jests, too, would come back to her, and the dance of responsive light in the brown eyes of Alice, and Herbert.
Once, as the twilight faded from the landscape, so impalpably that day seemed to pause and invite the weary children of the world to rest their hearts in its ineffable beauty, she sat and looked, and thought upon her friends. Suddenly a voice like Russell's, crying "Edith," as if across the gulf of time, came to her. Then she knew Edith was dead, and that Russell stood alone.
FROM A LETTER OF ALICE TO ERMINIA.
"Do not refuse our request, dear Erminia; it is necessary for Herbert's health that he should go away, yet it will in a measure alleviate the pain of his departure, I am sure, if he feels you, will be at home here during his absence. Beside, for our children's sake, I must urge it. I cannot send them away to school while there is a hope left me of your care and instruction. Perhaps this argument may prevail with you before every other. The necessity of occupation is the true spur to energetic life, and you are rigorous in the demands you make upon yourself! Therefore I feel you will find no uncongenial sphere for your labors here with my children. It has long been a part of my creed that the parent cannot make the best instructor of the child. A fresh mind impelling the intellect through unwonted channels, and a fresh heart whose sympathies forerun the religious aspiration of the growing soul, may be like a torch and guiding hand to lead it through the mysterious passages of life, where else it may stumble blindfold. Perhaps the child fears to confide to one so wise as his parent appears to him, lest his fancies, and those strange winds of feeling which sweep across the sunny plains of being, may be regarded as mere foolishness. But what can he not lay in holy confidence upon the newly erected altar of friendship! Beside is not religion aspiration? And what can quicken a child's nature more truly than contact with a new individual, who speaks to him from a heart of noble endeavor? Thus is reverence awakened, that keystone by which the arches of life are strengthened and their beauty sealed ......
"I must not omit to tell you that Herbert besought Russell to come with little Fanny and make his home here during the autumn and winter. It is yet more than doubtful if he accedes to our arrangement, but we shall not allow this new plan, even if it prove feasible, to interfere with the retirement of your life while here.
"I hope for you and await you, my dear friend! Your presence will alleviate the weight of the difficult burden I must bear."
Therefore, Erminia went.
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AN EXCURSION.
THE days passed swiftly and peacefully at "The Cliff." Alice had scarcely allowed herself to hope for the repose which succeeded her arrangements. They had been made with reference to the well-being of others, -- the happiness of the result was felt by none more deeply than herself.
The skill and method of Erminia in her new duties were recognized almost immediately, through their effect upon the children. Her direct influence was exercised for a few hours of the morning only, but it was sufficient to render them more thoughtful and circumspect in their relations to each other during the day. The confinement of the school-room gave a zest to the freedom which succeeded, and she joined the happy flight out into the air with as much rapture as either of her pupils. This rule for school hours as well as play, once quietly established, was seldom infringed upon; for Alice knew the advantage of a healthy routine was not to be lightly estimated.
One morning little Fanny ran into her father's room much earlier than usual, with all the impetuous eagerness of a child who has a story to tell, and finding him already seated at his desk, although it was half an hour too early even for the children's breakfast, she curled up on his lap, saying, "O papa, I am so glad you are ready, because now I can tell you a secret! Perhaps I sha'n't tell, after all, but you may guess, papa, if you can. I love somebody, -- somebody beside you, dear papa; will you try to guess who it is?"
"Why, perhaps," he said, trying to make the difficulty appear as great as possible, "perhaps it is your teacher, Fanny."
"Well, papa, I don't see how you ever guessed; but you can't think how good she is, and when we have been obedient she will sing to us sometimes, and -- O dear papa, how I wish you would ask her to sing to you, it is so beautiful to hear her! And what do you think she did for us yesterday, when we had stayed a little too late in the woods, and were hurrying home from our walk in the afternoon? Why, you see, there had been a great high tide, and the ocean had washed right over the short path and left a little pond. We tried to get round it, and tried and tried till Ally almost tumbled in; then at last she pulled off her shoes and stockings and tucked up her dress and carried us over one by one in her arms. Wasn't that kind, papa? My turn came last, because I am the tallest, so she gave me her shoes and stockings to carry. I thought I held on tight, but I almost dropped them once when I looked down and was thinking how pretty the water looked splashing up round her feet. But good by, papa; there's the bell, and I must run, for I hear Ernest and Ally in the hall already." And down his little girl slipped and disappeared before she heard, much less answered, any further questions.
An hour later, when Russell came into the breakfast-room, he found Alice and Erminia had just entered. It was somewhat later than their customary season, and as he took Erminia's hand he observed it to be slightly hot, and that she wore a heavy shawl drawn about her; but her manner, which was more gay and sprightly than usual,forbade special inquiry after her health, and the three were soon busily engaged discussing a new path which Herbert had long contemplated and desired, to lead more directly to the shore, which Alice had determined, with Russell's assistance, to complete during his absence. It was not possible for Russell to banish the thought of Erminia, however, in connection with his child. It was she who had incurred the risk of cold and fever to save others, and so quietly that none might know of it. If it had not been for thoughtful, affectionate little Fanny, he said to himself, this kindness would have been forgotten! He observed with deep feeling the slight hectic of Erminia's cheeks, and the signs of evident sleeplessness. He determined as soon as possible to find some opportunity to testify his gratitude, and in future to observe more closely a character which attracted him in proportion as he felt himself repelled by its reticence.
At this moment he remembered they had long been talking of a day's excursion to a famous rock-ledge in the neighborhood, called by the native dwellers near the sea, "The Pirate's Cross," and he concluded to ask the ladies immediately to appoint a time, the earliest possible, for their intended ramble. Then, at least, he hoped to find opportunity, without too many words, to testify to Erminia something of the feeling with which her behaviour had inspired him; to approach her as a friend, that she might feel he would be ready to stand by her in any emergency her lonely life should present, a true responsible arm of defence in time of need. He would not say this to her, but he longed to win her confidence, till she should gently lean upon his judgment and his kindness. Almost as speedily as these thoughts flashed through his mind, he communicated his plan for the excursion to Alice, who acceded to it at once with pleasure for the sake of both her guests. She fancied Erminia had been too closely confined of late, -- but at this first hint, as if the idea contained nothing which deeply concerned her, the one for whom they were both planning slipped quietly away to her pupils, leaving her friend as usual to answer for them both.
On the appointed morning Russell was in excellent spirits. Everything favored his plans. The neighbors, if such they might be considered, the nearest estate lying at least two miles distant by the road, had been asked to join the expedition, and were already assembled in their country wagons, suitable for rough woodland travel. The ladies of the house had not yet made their appearance, and the visible impatience of Russell was hardly exceeded by that of the children. Several times he arranged and re-arranged the shawls over the seats of the empty wagon waiting at the door. Once he walked quickly across the hall as if he would ascend the staircase and summon them, but returned as quickly to the piazza, and, gathering the children about him, seemed determined to make the best of a bad case, and to amuse himself in amusing them until the time for starting should arrive. He had scarcely resigned himself to this new occupation when Alice ran swiftly down the stairs, her eyes aglow, and with a slightly heightened color in her cheeks. In a moment she was in the wagon and the children beside her.
"But Erminia?" said Russell inquiringly.
"She will not go with us to-day," was Alice's quick answer.
"Did you say Erminia would not go?" he replied, as if the possibility of this disappointment then first occurred to his mind.
He was about to question Alice more closely, when the thought suggested itself, that he had no right to demand a reason she did not choose to give, -- and what was Erminia's absence to him farther than a disappointment, because he must defer still longer the expression of his gratitude for her constant and devoted care of his child. Therefore recovering himself almost immediately, he merely remarked, "I hope she is well this bright morning?"
"O, quite well, I assure you," said Alice; "look up, children, and let us wave our farewell!"
The eyes of the little party were immediately raised to where Erminia stood to watch their departure, upon the balcony over the piazza; and if any doubt with regard to her health remained with Russell after Alice's frank reply, it must have vanished speedily when he glanced up with the others to say, "Good morning," and met her glowing face, as she kissed her hand to the children. He did not fail to see the blush which threw its delicate color over her cheek, but he failed to see himself as the cause of it.
"Let us lead the way now," said Alice, and they drove speedily down the sweeping avenue, greeting their friends as they passed with an invitation to fall into an impromptu procession. And while the merry company whirled on. toward the rendezvous, even the rear-guard forgot the discomfort of their somewhat dusty position in the gleaming magnificence of the morning sea. But it was long before Russell recovered the tone of his spirits. He was disappointed his plan should have failed, and felt half inclined to blame Alice for its non-fulfilment. Yet her serene sunshine, together with the contagious gayety of the children, helped to disperse his clouds; although the chief enchantment lay perhaps, after all, in the exquisite loveliness of the autumn morning. In this aftermath of summer, one must indeed be unimpressionable not to discern that Nature claims certain days for her own, quite as much as during the heat of July or the jewel days of June.
As they passed a well-known farmer's house, Russell perceived two men just starting with their guns for a day's shooting. An easy lounging gait was the only expression of their enjoyment; but the boy who followed them, although evidently bent on a close imitation of the sang-froid of his elders, could not restrain the gayety of his eye nor the occasional sharp whistle of a lively air.
At length, as the wagons entered the woodland where they were soon to stop, Alice could not but observe how pretty the effect was of the winding procession, now hidden among pines and cedars and now emerging upon cleared spaces, or suddenly coming upon trees with low entwining branches, and to see the arms of the young girls thrusting aside the stiff fingers of the evergreen, or pulling the long boughs of coralline barberries during their slow progress. When farther advance became at last impossible, no one was more active for general good than Russell. He managed to send a party forward on foot with the baskets for their rural feast, and to interest Alice in conversation with one of her neighbors; and thus having performed what he considered his duty on the occasion, he escaped with the children by a slightly diverging path towards a favorite point he knew well, near the sea. He felt a desire for solitude; and remembering a little cove where the children would soon become absorbed in play, he felt he could be utterly alone while watching them and the ceaseless dashing of the waves. He did not know how little he really wished for loneliness; -- how he distanced himself from the friends he saw around him, only to seek the presence of another. It was wisely said by Jean Paul, "We could not endure solitude were it not for the powerful companionship of hope, or of some unseen one," and to-day the "unseen one," whom they had left behind, rose like a sun upon his spirit. He sighed to think her light might shine for other systems, but never, it seemed, upon his. To him it only gleamed from afar, as a distant planet may live and burn in the very radiance of our sunset, and tell us of strange limitless spaces made glorious by beams which we can only distantly divine or know in dreams.
The hours of the day passed quickly with Erminia. Alice had urged her to accompany them as strongly as she dared; but those few words when they parted the night before, "Russell wishes you to go, dear Erminia," made it appear impossible. What could she be to him, she questioned, that he should ask her to go! To a person so lonely, and dependent upon herself, a spark of kindness was a flame, and she scarcely dared suffer one to alight upon her heart. She thought Russell could hardly find cause to occupy himself much about her; but he was Fanny's father, and she could perhaps make his burden less difficult by great carefulness for his child. She fancied between herself and one so justly distinguished there was a wide distance, yet she listened to no conversation with warmer enthusiasm than to his; and although she seldom replied, her whole being was for the time absorbed in hearing and recalling his expressions. How happy she was in Alice's household! if only to be near a friend so beautiful, noble, and great as Russell, and able in any way to minister to him! Yet she would never willingly trust herself where his gratitude, which she could not but observe, should find any warmer expression than his calmest moments would approve.
She arose on the morning of this excursion strong in her determination and full of joy. The happiness of benefitting others, the feeling that she was in some dim way of use to one who had given much to her both from the inspiration of his books and from his visible presence, this made the light of every day more grateful to her eyes. To-day, when she felt how rich were her possessions, and when the instinct came with the strength, to keep them as they were, if possible, untouched, unstained forever, what wonder she appeared beautiful to Russell as she waved them good speed from the balcony, or that her quiet manner, as she moved about the house superintending some new domestic arrangement for Alice, contained a certain happy vigor which was scarcely native to her. She saw and did not forget the kindness of her friends, which had been testified that morning in Russell's look of disappointment and in Alice's tender persuasions.
The day had already melted into the misty gold of afternoon before she completed her labors. Then she lay down upon a couch which stood across the recess of the broad library window and watched the sea. It shone and glimmered under the broad cedars, which stood like sentinels upon the garden's edge, gradually burning and purpling in the sunset rays. And while she lay, in her fatigue she slept and dreamed.
She thought she was lying under the large cedar close to the verge of the cliff, and Russell was by her side. The children were far below, chasing the birds upon the sand. Presently Russell said, "May I play to you?" and seizing a violin he played until they seemed to float together on a golden sea of music, and the violin to become a boat, wherein they lay rising and sinking to the harmony of the waves. Suddenly the sea dashed with a sharp discord. She awoke to find the breeze had swung the half-opened door heavily back. Then she arose and shook away her dream.
The gloom and white mists of evening were abroad, when the, sound of horses' feet told of the return of the party. Erminia appeared to bring both light and warmth to the chilly group as she ran to welcome them, and throwing open the wide hall-door allowed the blaze of the bright wood-fire to stream into the dusk.
After the brief story of the day was ended, and they had finished the evening meal, they found their way into the drawing-room again, where no one was inclined to talk, and Erminia fancied the silence was growing irksome. Therefore she went to the piano, which her late occupations had prevented her from touching, and played softly, almost as if to herself, yet for others too if their mood chimed with hers, while the glimmer of the half-risen moon began to pervade the darkness of the room. She played on and on, until the absolute quiet of her listeners and the dreamful absorption into which the music drew her, caused the consciousness of their presence at length to pass away, and she seemed again to float on that divine sea of harmony which rocked her in her dream. Alice's love for music would have kept her spellbound if the children had not required her presence, and caused her soon to leave the room; but Russell sat still as breathing marble in the broad window, watching the moon as she slowly arose out of the sea over the dim horizon and laid a bridge of silvery lustre almost to his feet.
Presently Erminia stopped and her low, sweet voice, compounded of all gentleness, began a song of summer, while her fingers made the instrument speak like the rippling of streams to bear her company. Again she paused, and then the voice -- surging as if a storm of passion had swept across its gentle strength, leaving its sad vibrations -- arose once more. Russell listened, for this strange, sad tone thrilled him, and he heard these words:--
O tell me not so fair a sun may shine,
And pour his living beams alone on me;
Full well I know the glory is divine,
And all his undimmed path the world can see.Ye happy lovers clad in ecstasy!
Sway in your bliss and touch the speaking heaven!
Garner joy's ray to illume life's stormy sky,
Earth's shadows fall even where her love is given!But I shall ever gaze upon my star,
And know the glorious lustre cannot pale,
Through present dark his spirit gleams afar,
Nor passing heavenward can such beauty fail.The fountain of my love shall feel no bars,
But ever flowing ever be at rest;
For what am I that I should clasp the stars,
Or think their rays are only for my breast!Yet I could sigh and lean my weary head,
And lose all self upon the heart of love,
And loving, live, as if the world were dead,
And every voice as sweet as notes above.Then turn away from me thy glowing face!
My heart is weak, -- this frailty is of earth;
No longer would I feel that tender grace,
Lest I must stifle joy in his young birth.Alice glided noiselessly back into the room, while Erminia was singing these verses. Immediately to her clear vision their meaning was unfolded, and she shot one anxious glance towards Russell. The song was ended now, and he arose and came to the piano. As he approached Erminia and spoke, she started. "How strangely pathetic that song is," he said gently, and almost tenderly, as if he would make amends for having disturbed her. "I think I did not quite comprehend it. Have you the words there? I should like to see them and to know the writer's name. Love and suffering find expression in them, and that pain of lonely, unrecognized affection, perhaps the saddest cry the voice of humanity can raise! Can you find them for me?"
"No" said Erminia, speaking very low, "they are not written. The words were my own. I did not think them altogether sad," and she turned from the piano as she spoke, with a clear, unclouded smile, which seemed to comprehend him in its sunlight and what might lie beyond.
Russell saw, as he had never seen before, the ineffable tenderness of her face, -- a face that knew sorrow, but knew the eternal power of love, and he became humble as a little child before the light of her spirit. He answered her in a tone as low as her own, and which even Alice could not hear. When Erminia arose a moment after to close the instrument, he said more audibly, "Will you teach me something of your wisdom? I would come to you daily, as the children do." And she answered, as she gave him her hand to say good night, "I have no wisdom. I believe my sympathies make me a child with the children, but I know no other."
"That is what I need to learn most, I think," he replied earnestly. "There is a joy too, deeper than the joy of children, which can outlive all sorrow, being immortal. Your song, sad as it is, shows me that you know what I mean. Teach me this also, Erminia, through your sympathy."
As he spoke he turned away abruptly, and left her standing there. She listened to his feet as the echoes died upon the stair, and then turned lightly and passed through the moonlit hall to her own room.
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COMMUNICATION.
ERMINIA lay down upon her bed that night, happy, but sleepless. She allowed the wide window to invite the moonbeams, that, lying herself in shadow, she might watch the sea and sky. Was not this an instinct of her life to lie thus in shadow, watching and adoring the loveliness and glory which encircled. her? To her wakeful fancy the moon became a living type of human purity, and the snowy clouds which blossomed in her path, the lilies of the heart which expand in answer to the touch of her silver rays, the messengers of her love. "For these lilies of life," she said, "above all blessings, I praise thee, O God, for now their fragrance fills my heart."
And Alice in her lonely chamber, not far away, waited long for the benediction of the night. Her busy thought had also distanced the idea of sleep, and she sat for an hour by her silent window while desire cried, Peace! Peace! -- But there was no peace. Indeed, she was strangely disturbed. A fear which had vaguely floated in the atmosphere appeared at this time to take form, and her mind recoiled before the picture it presented. She could not make the cause sufficient nor altogether clear; but the dread of pain, almost the dread of joy, for one so tender and impassioned, and of such lofty aspect as her friend, this, it seemed, she could not endure alone. "Erminia and Russell!" she said, half audibly. "Surely he does not know how strong his influence is! He must be careful, rigorous with himself! If Herbert were only here, he could speak to him and all would be well. Ah, Herbert! if you were but here!" And Alice, habitually so controlled, the very abode of serenities, there in solitude poured her sorrows out, and the need and agony of her heart found voice. But at length she was enabled to turn in humility to the only fountain of our peace, and the loving and lonely one slept, wrapped as it were in the arms of faith.
On the poet's study-table a candle burned till long past midnight. The fatigues of the day had been exorcised by Erminia's singing, and when he entered his own room for the night, the temptation to write to Herbert was not to be resisted. His dislike of letter-writing in general was forgotten for the time, because he wished to speak with his friend. Russell seldom wrote to anybody when he could help it, and his conscience did not always sleep before the unanswered letters on his desk; but to-night his pen ran lightly forward, as if to greet the heart that would come to meet it. At last, looking for a moment off the page, he saw the moon-rays gleaming on a silver dish filled with dahlias, which in the early morning Fanny had gathered and placed upon the casement; thence the light glimmered down upon the floor and shone upon the brazen clasps and illuminated leaves of a disordered collection of precious old volumes he had left astray there. They seemed to rebuke his candle and his occupation. He put the light hastily out, like one suddenly discovered in an unworthy deed. When the beams expired and the weird moonlight brought sudden silence to his heart, he felt as if he had been drowning celestial music in dissonant cries, and he advanced toward the open window to enjoy the scene in its perfection. But as he turned, his glance fell upon a favorite portrait, now irradiated by the moon, where the face; although perfectly familiar, took a vigor of expression from the white light which startled him.
It was an ancient picture, the artist's likeness of himself; and yet no flattery of comeliness was in it, but a kind of strength, like a vision of angelic might, as if the painter had once attained the summit of the mountain of aspiration, and stood there long enough to recognize possibilities of his being. It was truthful too, neither hiding the signs of failure nor of pain. In the young, abundant locks, the white threads of sorrow, those blossoms of the eternal spring, were not altogether unseen. Over the pale square brow, as if upheld by Grecian pillars, through the fire and far-gazing of the dark-brown eyes, and in the firm endeavor of the mouth, not untried but resolute, Russell read now more plainly than ever before, "I will, I dare, I suffer, -- I AM STRONG: for yonder lies my strength."
Then the poet replied, as in a vision, "I will, I dare, I suffer -- would that I were strong!" And desire rising into prayer drew a new peace down upon his being, and at length he too slept as God's children may. Temptations, shrinking but not conquered, lurked and lingered. Only endeavor chained to aspiration can shame the Devil back to his grim home.
The moonlight became pallid in the dawn; the days moved round to nights. Waning and paling to the sight of earth, like many a joyless life, the moon faded and died. But the faithful stars only shone the brighter, and served to guide Herbert, the wanderer, back. He had grown restless and was bound towards home. Was it the call of that strange hour of a night heavy to Alice with new suffering, which touched him where he slept on distant seas, and drew him to his own?
The autumn sun was shining with undiminished splendor one October afternoon, when Herbert returned to "The Cliff." He entered the house unheralded, and, hastening to Alice's room, found her there, as he had scarcely dared to hope, alone. After the first shock of surprise had passed, they rehearsed together the long hours of their separation, with their mingled experiences.
"I felt myself so well that night," he said to her, "that my conscience fairly allowed me to think of home. After the thought, the very breath of the earliest steamer was more spicy and healing than the airs of the Indian Islands themselves. But what of Erminia?" he said, when the first moments were past; "we have not spoken of her, nor of Russell; where are they both this fine afternoon?"
Alice seized the opportunity which this question afforded to unfold the history of her hopes and fears: she found there was not much to be told after all, except she explained her anxieties, which were perhaps unnecessary, for Erminia.
"What if she should learn to love Russell, while he, forgetful of all but Edith, could not see that his gratitude was misinterpreted! Dear Herbert, do be watchful for them both, and put Russell on his guard if it be possible!"
"Don't be too anxious, Alice. It is fortunate I came home when I did, or I might have found my Mary turned into a Martha before very eyes."
Alice laughed a little childlike laugh over her troubles, which seemed to disappear before the present sunshine as marvellously as the Genii of the Arabian Nights fade in their mysterious veil of vapor. She was half inclined to believe, with Herbert, that her fancies were but air.
"But we will be very careful and observe them both well," she said, as they gave their children a good-night kiss in the nursery: we are but children of few more years and little more wisdom, and must help each other."
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COMPANIONSHIP.
"DO you know this flower?" asked Russell that same afternoon, as he suddenly emerged from what Herbert had laughingly christened "The Forest," a small clump of evergreen trees not far from the house, and, stopping Erminia in her walk, held a spray of purple Gerardia towards her.
"Yes," she answered quietly, taking the flower he extended for her acceptance, and fastening it in her dress, "I know it well, but I have not discovered its favorite haunt yet near 'The Cliff.'"
"Let me show you where it grows. I see you are out for a walk this glorious afternoon."
"Thank you!" The words were simple, but her heart rose with a sudden surge of happiness, as if in answer.
They advanced a moment in silence, until suddenly the shore and far horizon broke upon their view, and withthem all the dread and limitations of life seemed swept away. They ran forward swiftly now, towards the ocean, talking like two children, the healthy scene causing them to forget self-consciousness and every unnatural restraint, while they leaped from point to point upon the rocks, clambering down to the very edge of the sea.
Their voices chimed in natural cadence with the birds and waves as they called to one another from every new point to observe a filling sail or purple fleck thrown by the flying clouds Above them towered the cliffs, below and afar stretched the sea. Presently, from sheer fatigue, they perched, to rest awhile, in a fissure where the red granite was still warm from the midday sun. Looking upward, the rim of the rocks seemed cutting the blue sky above them. Erminia thought of Egypt, and said: "This is like a vision of Thebes." As he spoke, a short-billed curlew shot, with a wild, sharp cry, from a cleft vein not far from where they sat, and floated away, a speck of silver into the blue.
"The bird is jealous of your speech," Russell answered, "and would remind us that this is New England, our home."
They lingered in their warm shelter, until, looking towards the nearest cove, they saw a fleet of boats, resembling a flock of birds, emerging from their harbor. The fishermen were starting for a night at sea, each man in solitude with his lantern and his boat. The tiny skiffs clung together as long as companionship was possible; at length they saw them separate to seek lonely anchorage on the wide, inhospitable deep.
"We will not go for Gerardias to-night," said Russell, breaking the long silence they had kept while observing the boats, "it is time we returned. These fishers tell me it is later then I thought; but the sun has so stained the earth with lustre that his yellow rays may still serve to light us home. We call these fishers lonely," he continued, half audibly, as he turned to go, "but they have homes in which their hearts can rest even while they themselves are tossed upon the sea!" He spoke these last words to himself, as it were, yet they were hardly uttered when he feared lest Erminia might have heard them. She was finding her way lightly over the somewhat difficult path, with her eyes fixed upon the glowing West. Certainly she did not respond, yet presently she rested a moment until her companion should overtake her, and accepted the hand he offered, in order to balance her steps, not as if it were necessary to her, but rather as a pledge of companionship to him.
It was altogether dark when they reached the house, and the lights from the broad windows flung their welcome beams far down towards the shore. Herbert was lying in wait to give them a merry greeting, had not their approach been so quiet as almost to surprise him instead.
"Come in," he shouted heartily, when at last they appeared, "one would think you considered yourselves fit subjects for a romance. I have been trying to repeat the old proverb, 'Better late than never,' but it grew pretty musty after an hour's thinking of it from time to time. Alice has gone to put the purple beacon in the eastern window, fearing you had missed your way; I must tell her of your arrival." And having called to Alice and told her the good news, he drew them both under the hall lamp that he might "take proper diagnosis of their cases," he said, "and judge of Alice's good keeping."
The inspection proved remarkably satisfactory. Erminia stood with hat off and the rolls of her shining hair half escaping to her shoulders, with cheeks aglow and her dark eyes uttering a gentle remonstrance against being looked at, a picture of happiness and health; while Russell, forgetting he was there to be gazed at, seemed to absorb the light into his dreamful face as he stood between his friends.
Herbert's quick glance did not fail to detect this unwonted and beautiful lack of self-consciousness in Russell. Formerly he had sometimes seen him in this mood, when for many days together he scarcely quitted his study, never wandering farther than the pine trees upon which the room opened, and uninterrupted save when Edith entered, or at evening, when he himself would occasionally join them and talk over days passed upon the "Wengern," or in olive-circled Perugia. Then his mind was pre-occupied with his work; but his ordinary condition was quite different. Sensitively alive to the presence and opinion of others, conscious of superior talent and of personal beauty, he possessed a certain measure of vanity, which rather increased than lessened his general attractiveness, and seldom allowed him to be self-forgetful in the world of society. Herbert believed in his friend's genius as strongly as Russell himself, and liked to observe him as he was to-night, held by a power superior to this intellections; yet he questioned eagerly what that power might be, because with the thought, the suggestion of Alice returned uneasily to his mind.
"I will let you both go," he continued almost immediately, "when you have told me where you have been so long."
"Why, my dear fellow," said Russell, "the sunset has been a pageant, splendid beyond our imaginations, -- a scene never to be forgotten," and while he endeavored to give Herbert some idea of the glory of it from the point of view they had enjoyed, Erminia slipped away to prepare for the evening meal.
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AFFINITIES.
THE mysteries of affinity overarch our happiness like a blue heaven. The horizon expands around us, and the vulgar limitations of the day resolve and mix into a speck within our wide eternity. All is made ours. There is no reserve; nothing, however veiled, that shall not be revealed to the double sight of love.
Russell did not say these words as he walked across the neutral-tinted hills in the warm sun of an autumnal noon. The thought lay only half-fledged, as it were, in the sacred silence of his heart. He did not know that when he spoke he listened but for one reply, nor that the bleak November days seemed calm as summer because he walked with Erminia over the broad and glittering fields.
The days and weeks had thus far worn away, and a voice of winter whispered in the wind before Herbert could gather courage to tell Alice that a double reason prompted his return; and the hoar-frost traced, with his delicate white pencil, weird and vanishing figures upon Russell's balcony, before he questioned himself whether he loved Erminia and would ask her to be his wife, or if he must leave the hospitable home where she had become essential, perhaps, to his happiness. He did not believe Erminia loved him! Why should she? She knew his love for Edith, -- could she understand the necessity of his heart which cried out for her, while his angel was forever with him unforgotten? Yet he was thirsting for companionship, for fireside cheer, for her calm presence. She was able to lead him to his better self; and when at remote intervals they had passed an hour together and felt a perfect unison, he became like one renewed and strengthened. Her image lulled him when he slept and stood beaming with a lustre worthy of Edith's love when he awoke. It would be a second death in life to know he must lose her forever! Yet what claim, what hold had he upon her? How frequently she seemed to vanish at his approach! How slight were the opportunities she allowed for any speech! But each held little Fanny by the hand, and day by day the unconscious child strengthened an electric bond which Russell could not break, yet dared not think indissoluble.
"I will go and urge her to it with all the pent-up passion of my soul poured upon hers; yet," -- and the man became irresolute at the thought, -- "if she should stand with her clear face and shining eyes, saying, 'You are Edith's!' -- no! no! I cannot ask her now. Time must help me win; I will wait and labor for her love."
The autumn sun was high that morning when this thought of Erminia had at last taken shape in his mind. Russell was already wearied with struggle and indecision, although he had just risen. The early morning mail lay as usual upon the table, yet he left it unexamined until he was fairly ready to descend for the day. Then he tore the envelopes open carelessly and threw the letters down half unread, except one which he perceived among the last, from the shores of the Pacific. This was evidently of importance, and he read it thoughtfully. It was from a man who had taken the trouble, though a stranger, to inform him of the doubtful trustworthiness of the agent he had selected to superintend his business in that far land, and the letter urged him to come out immediately, to judge of the state of affairs for himself. What could he do? This property was Fanny's, left her by her mother, and must be guarded more carefully then if it were his own. He stood long, revolving the subject uneasily in his mind. "And if I must go," he said to himself finally, "I must go in silence. At least, when I return, if ever, there can be no more indecision. We shall both know clearly then what is essential to our happiness."
Full of uneasy questionings he descended slowly towards the breakfast-room. As he crossed the hall, Herbert came out of his own room hastily and met him. "My dear lad," he said in his healthy, cherry way, always like an invigorating breeze to Russell, "I see we are both late together this morning. Of course the queen bees have departed long ago; but let us make the best of a bad case and have a bachelor breakfast by ourselves. Things could hardly have happened more conveniently in one way, however, for I have a plan which I wish to consult you about, and we shall not find a better time than the present."
Russell was only too happy to be rid of his own sad cogitations for a while, and listened willingly to what Herbert had to say.
As soon as they were fairly seated at the table, he said, "these quiet weeks at home, you see, have, together with my voyage, set me quite on my legs again. I am perfectly well and strong now, and Alice and the children could hardly be more comfortably established, especially while you are with them, than they are at present. I am convinced therefore that I ought," -- here he hesitated.
"Why you seem to be making preparations for getting rid of yourself, -- out with it, Herbert, let us have the worst as soon as possible."
"O, there's no 'worst' about it, I hope; only, to tell the truth, I feel bound to join the army. I had an offer of a colonelcy before I went away last summer for my health, and I decided then, if I recovered, I would do what I could, when I returned, for the great cause. I told Alice about it this morning, and next to telling her I believe I dreaded telling you, Russell; -- but her behavior made everything that should be done look easy. You know our life together has not been one of explanations, and I really think she was prepared for my resolution, and felt relieved after we had talked over our plans. She anticipated this when I first went away from home, and she feels as I do, there is nothing left for a true patriot in my position but to go. Yet the thought of our speedy separation is not easy. I have promised to leave for the camp two weeks from to-day."
There was a pause after Herbert had done speaking. Then Russell sighed heavily and said, "Perhaps I also ought to have done as you have, Herbert, but I have lived too much and too many years in my study to make an efficient solder in the camp, or perhaps I try to think so when I look at my little Fanny, who would be utterly lonely without me. Beside, I hope the work I have accomplished at home is not without its value. You are only to be congratulated upon your heroic resolve; the resolution alone brings you the finest laurels. As for Alice, I do not fear for her. I see from your face what a glorious support she has been. She is a woman worthy to live in this great spring-time of liberty! But now, Herbert, I ought in turn to unfold the plans to you which have been suggested by my letters this morning. We need to take counsel together to-day, if ever, and much more since your unexpected departure is so near at hand. Certainly I must do nothing which can interfere with your determination." And with a sudden half-defined hope that Herbert would not think his case an urgent one, he drew the letter he had just received from his pocket and laid it before his friend. "I wish you would read it," he continued, "and give me your candid opinion."
Herbert took the letter and read it through in silence. Russell watched him eagerly, that he might not lose the expression of one spontaneous feeling its perusal should awaken, and he did not fail to observe a shadow of anxiety which at first overspread his face. But his clear, concise reply, true as Herbert was, gave him satisfaction with the pain. The demon of indecision was exorcised.
"I think you should go by the next steamer, for I see no real reason for delay. Perhaps in this way you may avoid the bitter cold and storms of winter on our coast. We shall leave a lonely household, it is true, very lonely, but I do not think the necessity for remaining sufficiently strong to counterbalance the necessity for your departure. Justice to the interests of your child calls for your immediate absence. You will be back probably before midsummer returns," he added, observing the shadow which crept over Russell at the thought. "We shall count upon this. Indeed you can hardly be detained later than the early spring, unless matters are far worse then we believe."
Herbert said no more, waiting for a word of response from Russell. He was fully aware that some feeling beside the apparent anxieties of his position agitated his friend, and he lingered, hoping for a word of questioning or confidence with regard to Erminia. He had become at last entirely convinced of her feeling for Russell, and he could not escape something of Alice's disquietude, when he found himself the agent, as it were, dividing them perhaps forever. Russell, on the other hand, sat unconscious of his friend's thought, listening for him to speak again, hoping for one word which might keep him from this fatal voyage and give him time to follow where his aspiration led; time or opportunity to dare.
They sat long in silence. Then Herbert suddenly remembered that affairs called him, and hastened to leave the room.
Russell felt like a doomed man when he saw Herbert depart. Hitherto the days had slipped away, spurred in their course by a fresh unconscious love which he recognized now, a joy he had never hoped to know again. He had wrapped himself in the glory of his dream, and had known no awakening save a disturbing fear which the reticence of Erminia's manner sometimes caused him to feel. Now the moment was come when he must lose her, perhaps forever. The future was black before him with clouds of uncertainty, the present a living torture. If he were only sure of her regard for him; if the perfect smile he had seen break like a morning of love upon her face, when in some happy moment they had talked together forgetful of restraint, -- if that were his, were born for him, then he could find voice. He could not help observing that Erminia avoided him, and hedged herself behind her marble grace, saying, as it were, "If Russell would come to me it must be by a path of his own creating. I am not like Edith, one whom the world admires, and who is fitted to stand by his side among the worshippers who seek him." Yet by the fireside, and in the quiet ebb and flow of their daily life at "The Cliff," Russell learned instinctively to recognize the wealth of her simple life, and Erminia to see in him a growing distaste for the allurements of society and a longing for the continued shelter of a home. She did not think of herself, however, in relation to him, otherwise than through Fanny, who clung to her as if parting were a thing impossible.
Russell saw the river of time flowing on, and he knew his departure was imminent. It was just that he, and not another, should tell Erminia of his journey. "Not Herbert, not Herbert," he repeated to himself; "I must tell her; beside, I must entreat her still to watch over Fanny, -- to -- to be a mother to her. I cannot take the child away."
In the struggle between his dread of an interview and the fear of delay, the morning of that day slipped by. When the hour of dinner was announced, Russell pleaded occupation as an excuse for his absence from the family circle.
He had returned to his own room soon after Herbert quitted him, and it was mid-afternoon before he again left it. Believing the house to be solitary as usual at that hour, he descended then, and crossed the library, with the intention of taking a rapid walk by the sea. As he stepped from the long window opening upon the piazza, Erminia stood there, with her back toward him, where she had been occupying herself since dinner apparently tying up the honeysuckle which the autumn winds had displaced. She had unfastened the body of the vine in order to arrange it more perfectly, and had thrown the tangled net of scarlet berries and sphere-like purpled leaves over her shoulders till they swept the ground behind her. The sun was glancing upon her radiant hair and sparkling on the berries and the leaves.
Russell stood still. How beautiful! was his first thought; and his second, "Yes, I see it all, this is my appointed time!"
He spoke to her then, and she, with a childlike gladsomeness, told him she was happy to see him out of school at last, and feared he had a very hard master to keep him so long! But observing quickly that he did not respond to her mood, she waited quietly and continued her work until he should reply.
"I wish to tell you," he began, after a pause during which Erminia partly disengaged herself from the vine, "that I am compelled to go away from 'The Cliff,' for a long time. Business calls me, business for Fanny's sake! And I wish to leave the child wholly to your care."
As he spoke the vine slipped away from Erminia, and she stood motionless, looking far over the sea.
"I shall be gone until midsummer. May I leave the most precious treasure I have on earth with you? I must indeed travel westward, but I shall be ever turning to the east. I feel myself moored here where my child is, and -- "
Ill-concealed emotions were already struggling in Russell's voice; again he asked, abruptly, "May I leave her, this treasure, to you, Erminia? May I think of her, for my sake enfolded in your arms?"
He waited eagerly for her reply, but she stood now with her face turned quite away from him, and simply said, "You may!"
How lonely the shore became that afternoon to the solitary walker. A creeping mist shrouded the distance, and the slow roll of the perpetual waves upon the beach was like Nature's metronome of silence. The solitude of death rushed upon him. The wind, playing over the pine-groves as its harp, whispered, "Alone! alone!" and the ripples, as they curved towards his steps, answered in their dim monotone. All was sad and low as his own heart, wherein there was no hope. Sadly he paced the sands, listening only to the chant of his worn spirit. Only that; no light, no hope.
But when at length the shadows grew the deepest, there arose a beacon on the headland. It stretched its glowing fingers out towards him, as if to guide the wanderer and rekindle his faint hope.
To-morrow passed, and still to-morrow; on the fourth day Russell was to sail. Alice and Erminia superintended the arrangements for his personal comfort, while he set the house of his affairs in order, for departure. Herbert had concluded after mature deliberation to close the establishment and leave "The Cliff" until summer should return, and had been sufficiently occupied himself in finding comfortable lodgings for his family in the city. As yet, however, there was no sign of removal about Alice's household. All was as usual, except a calm, like the calm of grief, and a sacred stillness seemed to pervade the place. When Russell and Herbert were at home, however, these two women, radiant with their love and endeavor, half cheated those others into forgetfulness by a courage which was sometimes insufficient for themselves.
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SOLITUDE.
IT appeared that Alice's own suffering was merged during those bitter days in the unspoken grief of Erminia, for whose comfort she felt she could do nothing. Not even Herbert could understand her friend as she could, and the tears sprang to Alice's eyes as she watched that marble pallor return, at one time native to Erminia's face, but lately driven away by the rosy dawn of happiness. None but Alice, passing late into her bedroom, could hear the heavy sob breaking on silence, and none but she knew the early feet which crossed the lawn and visited the shore, hoping for the morning. Nor could another know that the coming separation had revealed a truth hitherto concealed from all, even from herself. Why should Alice speak of these things, and to whom? Herbert needed cheer, therefore she might not speak even to him! Beside, would it not seem like betrayal? She murmured only, "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and remained silent.
The morning of Russell's departure arrived. As he awoke, his first thought was, Erminia and Fanny are my world, and to-day I leave them both, without the courage to anticipate the future. If Erminia will but give me one ray of hope before we part, it shall be my happiness, my beacon, till I return.
O dark and blind! Where are the seeing eyes to perceive your child wrapped and sheltered in almost a mother's tenderness, -- to behold the joy lighting the being of that woman at your approach, -- to interpret the very reticence of her demeanor when you have been most rash? Do you then wait for speech, that dull and partial medium, when you feel the spirit within you vibrate?
Russell heard the voice and longed to act upon it, but the hours flew by and left him still irresolute. He could not know the agony they brought to her who was called self-sustained. In his after-life there came a period when he knew no mortal can be sustained in loneliness but by the grace of God, our self-hood is so weak, and that the birth from suffering, through grace, is peace.
The hour of departure arrived. The little group clustered around the porch to bid Russell good speed. He bade farewell to each, and took Erminia's hand the last, as if hoping till the latest moment for a sign, he knew not what. But when he lingered for a look, she stooped and kissed Fanny, who stood between them, and so veiled her eyes. Once more he pressed her cold hand; -- at length, when she raised her head, Russell was gone.
In another week Herbert also took his departure; going proud and strong, with a noble soldier's bearing. Then the women and children were left alone.
For the first time Erminia knew the shadowy wood through which the feet of the solitary may pass. It was not a solitude like that which followed her father's death, when every moment was peopled with the sweet memories of his life, not that solitude of the child which is "the power of God, and the mystery of God; the echo of a far deeper solitude through which he has already passed, and of another solitude, deeper still, through which he has to pass; reflex of one solitude, -- prefiguration of another." The way was dark and she walk gropingly. She seemed to be passing over a lofty, uncertain bridge, with a gulf of blackness reaching down infinitely on either hand, and there was none to help. And a voice said, This is the prefigured time, the true death.
Erminia often said to herself that she expected nothing from Russell; that he owed her nothing; on the contrary, she had derived much from him. She only remembered he was her ideal, no other was so lofty in her eyes; his presence was her life, his absence, -- vacuity, solitude. He had often spoken kindly to her; why did he not say one word at least before departure? Why did he leave her in silence now, if his previous speech and manner signified anything? Could the sun be false in his course? Yet why did he leave her without one regretful word! Surely it would not have been unmanly to express his feeling!
One afternoon, as these turbulent thoughts rose and surged within her, and the tempest would not be allayed, a hand tapped at her door, and she heard a merry voice say, "Where is my pet? Here, -- all alone, -- may I come in?" and Fanny, half peeping as she spoke, sprang into Erminia's little room, looking out on brick walls, and nestled up into her lap.
"You are cold here, and must come with me, my darling," she said, with a protecting air, as if she felt herself the guardian.
Then Erminia wrapped the child in her wide opened arms, and dropping one hot tear upon the bright curls, knew she
"Touched God's right hand in that darkness."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was strange for Alice to find herself living once more in town. Years had passed since she had known much of people or their habitations outside of her own family and her humble village friends; and when the inevitable bustle of removal was completed, the days stretched blankly before her, holding anxiety out as her dull companion. Soon, however, Herbert's letters, punctual as the morning, began to arrive, and they enabled her to live much in camp with him, while Ernest and Ally demanded also a large share of her attention. She must now keep double watchfulness over them, -- must learn, suffer, and enjoy with them. She discovered that she must live with her children as well as for them, and love and pray, aspiring to be one with them in childlike earnestness.
How shall we repeat the story, told in Herbert's daily letters, of his life in camp, -- of its thronging occupations, its wild excitement, its vast solitude? All these elements made up the stirring history, -- one that many of us know by heart. Why should I recount it here, rehearsing in cold words an experience, at the memory of which we hold our breath? Let me insert instead some verses written by a friend of Herbert, a Colonel like himself, which possess the merit of having been written on the spot, in the speaking silence of the night.
"Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
As I lay with my blanket on,
By the dim fire-light, in the moonlit night,
When the skirmishing fight was done."The measured beat of the sentry's feet,
With the jingling scabbard's ring!
Tramp! tramp! in my meadow-camp,
By the Shenandoah's spring.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
The sentry, before my tent,
Guards, in gloom, his chief, for whom
Its shelter to-night is lent."I am not there. On the hillside bare
I think of the ghost within;
Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side,
To-day, 'mid the terrible din[.]"Of shot and shell and the infantry yell,
As we charged with the sabre drawn.
To my heart I said, 'Who shall be as the dead
In my tent at another dawn?'"I thought of a blossoming almond-tree,
The stateliest tree that I know;
Of a golden bowl; of a parted soul;
And a lamp that is burning low."O thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill
In the far-off Jura chain:
Of the two, the three, o'er the wide salt sea,
Whose hearts would break with pain!* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"'Halt! Who comes there?' The cold midnight air
And the challenging word chill me through;
The ghost of a fear whispers close to my ear,
'Is peril, love, coming to you?'"The hoarse answer, 'Relief,' makes the shade of a grief
Die away with the step on the sod.
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer
Confide my beloved to God!"Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
With a solemn, pendulum swing!
Though I slumber all night, the fire burns bright,
And my sentinels' scabbards ring."'Boot and saddle!' is sounding. Our pulses are bounding;
'To horse!' And I touch with my heel
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks
With my heart, like my sabre, of steel."Russell's experience during these days of winter must not pass unmentioned. The gloom of parting seemed to be pictured on the face of Nature as he left the hospitable doors where the flowers of life had blossomed again even for him. The sleet and snow pattered against the narrow windows of the carriage, leaving small out-look except upon the black miry footprints around the stations as they passed. At length night shut down; and, utterly wearied with the excitement of the last few days, his brain confused by the jolting of the cars, he fell into a deadened condition, when his perceptions became inert, yet the restful obliviousness of sleep was absent. He did not fairly revive until he found himself the next morning actually standing on the pier and waiting to approach the steamer whither he was bound. Then the feel of the salt sea refreshed his senses. He saw the blue just breaking over the sky and scattering the morning mist, the harbor gay with white-winged boats, the pier crowded with hurrying men, anxious women, and wide-eyed children, with luggage and dogs in proportion. A parrot was screeching in a cage at his right hand, an infant nursing at his left; in front he saw a vivid panorama of the bay, with its hospitals, islands, villas, and light-houses; while in the far distance, blue as the wing of a Brazilian butterfly, stretched the broad ocean. But he moved hastily forward to his destination now, hardly knowing that he observed these things. The steamer was already crowded, and his own state-room, engaged many weeks previously, he found in the possession of a lady and her daughter. What should he do? He went to the captain; but the poor man, already half-crazed with the number of like complaints, said he knew nothing about it, and could do nothing if he did. "More people want to go than there's room for, and they'll have to settle it among themselves." This answer, half to himself and half to Russell, was all the satisfaction he could get. It certainly was not an encouraging beginning. He returned therefore to the cabin, and there sat the same lady whom he had seen in his state-room. He accosted her, after a moment's deliberation, and asked if number twenty-two were her stateroom.
"Yes, it is," she replied, evidently a little surprised at the question.
"Excuse me," said Russell, "but it is the same one which was assigned to me three weeks ago, and I must endeavor to investigate the matter."
The lady looked perplexed. "If you will wait a few moments," she said, finally, "until Mr. Van Ranse returns, I am sure he will be happy to do what he can to assist you."
Russell waited, but finding the gentleman in question did not return, he determined once more to try his fortune. He first compared again the number upon his key with that upon the door of the pre-occupied state-room, and finding they accorded only too well, he was about to seek the proper authorities for redress, if possible, when Mrs. Van Ranse again appeared.
"I would not keep the apartment," she said, "since your application was made much earlier than ours, except for my daughter Amy, who is rather delicate, and not a good sailor under the most favorable circumstances. I fear there is culpable carelessness on the part of the officials, which has been too commonly the case upon this line. We only applied for a passage five days ago, intending to have taken the next steamer, had not our affairs demanded the presence of Mr. Van Ranse as soon as possible; and we were somewhat surprised at our good success, which I discover, too late, is at the expense of your comfort."
Russell bowed his acknowledgments for her politeness, and said he would make one more effort to have the matter cleared up. He would not disturb the ladies, however, on any account, as he could learn to be quite comfortable anywhere. Yet he felt, as he turned away, that the last alleviation of this intolerable voyage was gone when he had lost the possibility of retirement, which his comfortable state-room would have secured to him.
The inconvenience to which Mr. Van Ranse had thus unwittingly subjected a gentleman, and especially Russell, for whom it appeared he held an enthusiastic admiration, being a devoted reader of his books, caused him to make every possible reparation in his power. The daily attentions extended to him by the family proved the high esteem in which he was held. No kindness was omitted which might in any way lessen the discomfort of the journey.
Fortunately the weather, although cold, was often clear and invigorating. It was in the afternoon of one of those favorable days shortly after their departure that Russell found himself seated upon the deck, somewhat apart, holding a book as a kind of fence against intruders, which he had suffered nevertheless to drop from his hand, while his whole senses became absorbed in watching the monotonous rise and fall of the wide sea-plain. He was suddenly aroused from his aimless dream by the approach of pattering footsteps from behind. He turned quickly. It was Amy Van Ranse.
"Don't you need a walk?" she said, with a mixture of shyness and coquetry. "I am sure it would be good for your health, and I have tired papa out."
Russell obeyed her command gracefully; indeed, it would have required a person of far less natural politeness than himself ever to say "No" to the appeals of this pretty child-woman. Beside, it was refreshing to walk with any one who possessed such elasticity. Her trim little figure, enclosed in a thick sack-coat of comfortable Quaker hue, with a dress of slightly deeper tint, just caught up sufficiently to reveal the hem of her bright petticoat, and nice feet in their strong, trim-laced walking-boots, seemed, under the new excitement of sea-life, to possess inexhaustible vigor. There was something about her, Russell thought, which resembled Erminia. She was as unlike as it was possible to conceive, and at first he could not discover where the charm lay. But that afternoon, as the sun fell upon her hair, where the small brown hat allowed it to be seen, he found it possessed the same golden hue as that other hair, to remember which was more to him now than anything the present could bestow, and which he loved to have suggested to his memory in this way, although Amy's locks were far less plenteous and beautiful than Erminia's. They were more like herself, a little crisp and unruly, yet very pretty too in their way. And the eyes, -- was there not something in them, too, like Erminia's? To be sure they were not brown, like hers! They were sometimes light gray; but just now, as he was thinking of them, they had caught, as he fancied, the blue sea color, deep and full. Yes, that was it; they seemed to fill with light to their very depths, as Erminia's did when she was earnest. And Amy, for a wonder, was talking earnestly then. He had discovered she could do that at times, when he led her on; but he must do it carefully. She would take fright at the faintest tinge of satire, and would start into such a broad career of nonsense as to preclude all possibility of further advance. That afternoon nothing came to disturb her mood, -- she was talking of the home they had left behind.
"It was hard work to make up our minds to come. In the first place, you see, we had to leave our friends, and then," with an arch look, "some people who cared very much about us, whom it wasn't so easy to get away from"; -- and Amy blushed a trifle at this, intimating, as it were, Those were my lovers, you know; and perhaps you may as well know it, too; it doesn't hurt me at all, and there's no reason why the whole story shouldn't come out, especially to you, who would never speak, or perhaps never think of it again!
"Then there was my piano, which stood in a lovely room for music, -- an apartment papa had arranged on purpose. Of course we've brought the piano with us, but -- we couldn't bring the room exactly! And then the conservatory, and" -- beginning to look very serious, -- "I won't think of it a moment longer, or I shall be miserable!"
"I wish you would," said Russell; "not that I like you to be miserable, but it is pleasant to hear of such a delightful home."
"Ah, yes! but I did not think you were cruel. Do you forget Dante's Hell has few worse pangs
'Che ricodarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria'?"Russell was fairly surprised, both by the depth of feeling Amy revealed to him in spite of herself as she said these words, and the perfect knowledge of Italian her pronunciation evinced. What a weird little sprite she was, to be sure!
"Do you know," said Russell, in a tone which hung on the narrow, inexplicable verge between truth and joking, "that my doctrine is, we sound the deeps of Hell in this world! Perhaps," he added, presently, as if half musing, and with an uncontrollable touch of sadness, "perhaps we scale the heights of Heaven also."
"But," said Amy, "I am sure it isn't Heaven at all if you don't know it. There was I skimming off the thickest cream of life, and lapping it up with about as much gratitude as a kitten, and never discovering where I had been till I found myself, 'Nella miseria.'"
She said this with such a half-mournful, half-comic expression, that Russell could not help laughing.
"Poor kitten! how miserable you do look this glorious afternoon! With nothing on the planet to enjoy but capital health, a grand sea view, inspiring air, and a companion, -- h--m!"
"Who seems to have no pity for the sufferings of others!"
"People who lose their temper at once become unjust," Russell answered. It delighted him to watch the pretty, tempestuous little face while he teased her. "I only wished to discover the depth of your sorrow, that I might learn how to sympathize with it truly, you must remember."
"O -- oh!" said Amy; and then, as if the most opportune interruption possible had come to a talk she as determined not to prolong, she looked seaward a moment intently, and exclaimed, "Dolphins! don't you see dolphins?"
"Dolphins," said Russell, derisively; "they are nothing but porpoises."
"No matter, I want to see them," she answered; "please give me your hand," and in a moment she had sprung upon the deck railing, and from thence into the life-boat, which was fastened high up where she could get a better view. There she sat quiet, and apparently content for a moment, and then turned round and smiled at her companion, as if she would say, "We are still very good friends, but I won't be teased."
He was piqued. The touch of true feeling she had revealed made him ready to know more of this strange little creature, but she was as difficult to seize as the will-o'-the-wisp.
"Amy," said Mr. Van Ranse, who appeared on deck at this juncture, "Amy, what are you doing up there?"
"Only watching porpoises, papa; your friend down there helped me up."
The last words made it impossible for her father to administer the reprimand he had in his heart. As for Russell, he was vexed really at last. He would almost as soon have helped her to leap overboard, if he could have known what she was about to do.
There she sat, however, undisturbed, and watched the sunset, while her father and Russell paced the deck and talked together. But she also watched her chance adroitly, and once, when they were at the farther end of their beat, slipped down from her eyrie and ran away to find her mother.
"Amy," said Mr. Van Ranse, as it became dark. "Amy," he called, finding she did not respond, "I wish you would come down now." But hearing neither movement nor answer, he clambered up into the boat, and, not finding his daughter there, he became seriously alarmed.
"She is not here!" he cried hoarsely to Russell, who answered quickly, --
"If you will continue your search about the deck, I will step below. She may have gone down when we were not observing her."
He flew to the cabin. There sat Mrs. Van Ranse, reading, with Amy coiled up fast asleep on the seat beside her. Before he could say, "Thank God, she is safe!" Mr. Van Ranse had followed him, and Amy was opening her eyes, ready to laugh over the excitement she had occasioned. When she saw the trouble in her father's face, however, she turned to him, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him with deep and penitent affection such as words are powerless to express; and Russell felt the involuntary tears rise to his eyes at the sight. He quietly withdrew from the cabin, feeling he was no longer necessary, and left them alone together, while he returned to the deserted deck to watch with the stars.
He recalled the last vigil he had kept. It was after Erminia's singing: when he was stung by a hope too nearly like despair, yet laden with a sacred fruit. It told him he could love again; and when he slept at last, with the peace of that thought in his heart, Erminia came and seemed to beckon him into her sweet presence. Then indeed he awoke as now, to find himself alone, fearing to advance; but to-day the pain, the longing found no relief, until, as the morning of consolation ever awakes from the night of sorrow, a light came, when the new dawn arose.
He determined to send to Erminia from the first port a ring he wore, as a silent expression of what he knew not how to say. She seemed so proud, so impenetrably hedged around by barriers she chose to raise, that he could not discover her feeling towards him. Poor Erminia! The pathos of her words he did not comprehend. And when she sang, --
The fountain of my love shall feel no bars,
But ever flowing ever be at rest;
For what am I that I should clasp the stars,
Or think their rays are only for my breast!who shall say that she comprehended herself, or the need, the hunger of her life!
At length the days and the nights were numbered, and the stately ship rocked on the Western sea. Then the weary voyagers were bathed in winds of summer, and the ocean became as glass, and the sunset became as rubies, and the mountains shone like pearl. They entered at last, by the Golden Gate, and Russell's ring had gone to Erminia.
Amy professed no talent for solitude. She did not like to be alone. Hers was a sweet, clinging presence, always ready with a laugh or a tear for her neighbor, and being apart by herself was her first idea of unhappiness. Therefore she considered it her responsibility "to take care" of her numerous fellow-passengers, and of her "papa and mamma and their friend" in particular; "the care," as she phrased it, consisting in the exercise of her simple childlike arts of beguilement. It was impossible to be annoyed by her, or ever to consider her arrival an interruption. Russell began to depe