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Page 29
ANONYMOUS.
A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening. In the small
dining-room of Florence Hamilton's humble home assembled the now
diminished family circle. Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head,
with closed eyes, against the window. The tea bell rang; she lifted
her head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow again
on its resting-place. Mary approached, and taking her hand, said, in a
gentle, winning tone, "Come, Florry dear."
"Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any."
"But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need something; do try,
for my sake."
"I cannot. If you knew how both head and heart ache, you would not
urge me."
Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with a heavy heart.
Florence had left her seat, and was standing in the door: as her
cousin rose from the table she beckoned to her, and passed hurriedly
out. Mary strove to catch her arm but she hastened on, as if trying
to escape from herself. Suddenly she paused by the river side, and
clasped her hands convulsively over her head.
"Mary! Mary! you know not what I suffer."
"Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my shoulder."
She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold, sparkling drops
on her cousin's burning brow, speaking the while in a low, soothing
tone. Florence rested a few moments in her cousin's arms, then threw
herself on a grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan
alone attesting her mental anguish. Mary wept more bitterly than
she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none would have known her
grief, save from the tears that fell over her hand and arms. Can it
be, that the spirits of departed friends hover near us while on
earth, and draw closer in hours of woe? If so, why is it denied to the
suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the "loved and lost?"
Why may not their silver pinions fan the burning brow of sorrowing
mortality, and the echo of Heaven's own melody murmur gently, "Peace,
peace and joy for evermore?"
Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion had passed
away, and left her calm. The bright moon shone full on her face. Oh!
how changed since the morning she stood in Madame ----'s schoolroom.
The large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with lines of
mental anguish; the cheeks colorless, and her long raven hair tossed
back, and hanging like a veil below her slender waist. There was
a hollow, wasted look in every feature; the expression was one of
hopeless misery, and a something there was which made the heart ache,
yet the haughty glance of other days might still be seen.
"Mary, look at me!"
"Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it makes me feel."
"I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not? Answer me truly."
"Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me such a question?
You have had cause to look pale."
"Ah! you say truly; but, Mary, have you never suspected that a secret
grief was freezing the life-blood in my cheeks?"
"Florry, what do you mean? I am afraid you are feverish!" and Mary
laid her hand anxiously on her cousin's. It was flung contemptuously
off.
"Mary, listen to what I have to say. I am in a strange mood to-night,
and you must not contradict me. Where shall I begin? When my mother
died I was four years old, they say, and a very delicate child. My
mother! how strange it sounds. Yet I can at times faintly remember
her beautiful face. Very faintly, as in a dream, I have seen an angel
visitant. My mother, why did you leave your hapless babe? Oh! why? my
mother! I was left much to myself, and followed unrestrained my
own inclinations. You know my fondness for books; that fondness was
imbibed in girlhood, as I wandered in my own sunny home--my lost home.
My father taught me to conceal my emotions--to keep down the rising
sob, to force back the glittering tear; and when I smiled over some
childish grief, applauded my stoicism. I became unnatural, cold,
haughty, but not unfeeling. I remember well how your pale face and
mourning dress touched my heart, and waked my sympathies. From that
hour I lavished my love on my father and yourself. Years passed and we
went to New Orleans--" Here Florence paused, and closed her eyes for
a moment, but quickly resumed--"You know how I studied. Mary, was it
merely from love of metaphysics and philosophy, think you? No. no!
Mr. Stewart's look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I mastered
various intricacies, was the meed for which I toiled. Mary, from the
first day we met, I loved him, for his was a master spirit I worshiped
him in my inmost soul, and he loved me in return. I know--I feel that
he did. Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would have scorned to
speak of love to one who never smiled in his presence. Oh! often when,
he stood beside my desk giving instruction, my heart has sprung to
him. I have longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from
his heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips. No look of love ever
fell on me. His glance was cold and haughty. Oh, how inconsistent
is woman! I yearned for his love; yet, had he tendered it, under my
haughtiness would have dropped my idol--have shivered it at my feet.
Weeks passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the morning of
my life was destined to be short. The cloud that had lowered on the
horizon suddenly darkened around. That never-to-be-forgotten letter
came, and I saw a great gulf open at my feet. An invisible hand placed
Dudley Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and an
unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation--'Forget the past
and live again in the future!' I started as from a frightful dream.
The cold reality forced itself upon me. Mary, a suspicion stole into
my heart, and stung me. I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart
loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that
crowded bitterly up? The morning we left New Orleans, I went into the
schoolroom for our books. Ah! who may know the agony of that hour! I
sat down in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in
mine anguish of spirit. Oh! Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest
hour of my life. I had fancied he loved me: I feared I was deceived; I
hated--despised myself for my weakness. Yet I could not reproach him;
he had never sought my love.
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