PART I.
IT was to be a quiet wedding. Fannie would have it so; only hisrelations. She, poor thing, was an orphan, and only spirit-parentscould hover around her on this great era of her life.
The bride entered the large, sunny parlour, leaning upon the arm ofher stately husband. Her white lace robe, and the fleecy veil uponher head, floated cloud-like around her fragile, almost child-likeform. Peace hovered like a white dove over her pure brow, and atruthful earnestness dwelt in the dark brown eyes.
On one side of the room nearest the bay-windows, Where the sunset kept shining and shining between The old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green,
stood the eight brothers of the groom. All tall, dark, stately men,pride in ever black glancing eye; the same curl upon every finelyformed lip, harsh upon some, softer upon others, yet still there,tracing the same blood through all; the same inherent qualities ofthe father transmitted to the sons. One brother was a type of all,differing only as pictures and copies--in the shade and touch.
Upon the opposite aside were seated the five sisters of the groom,not so like one another. One had blue eyes, another auburn curls,one a nose retrousse, a fourth was fresh and rosy, a fifthround-faced; still the same pride had found a resting-place on somefine feature of each face, and stamped it with the seal ofsisterhood. The same sap ran in all the branches, and each branchput forth the same leaves.
The thirteen faces had been stern and cold, but when their youngestbrother and his fair bride came in, affection and curiosity softenedtheir eyes, as for the first time she appeared before them. Somethought her too delicate, others too young; the sisters, thatHarwood could have looked higher; but all felt drawn to thatshrinking form and pale countenance; each hand had a warm grasp forhers, each curling lip a sweet smile, and the manly voices softenedto welcome her into their proud family. Gracefully she received all,happy and joyful as a child. But the first shadow fell with thesunlight.
"Brothers and sisters," said Harwood pleadingly, "upon this mywedding day cast aside your bitterness of spirit for ever, andbecome as one--"
"Harwood!" replied quickly the elder sister, "upon this--this happyday, we hide all feelings called forth by the malice andunbrother-like conduct of our brothers, but only for the present;we, can never become reconciled."
A silence fell upon all; strange as it may seem, the sisters werecolder and sterner than the brothers. A frown settled upon everybrow; the lips curled with contempt. A storm was tossing the waves,but peace breathed upon the waters and all was calm. The presence ofthe bride restrained angry expressions of feeling.
This was the first knowledge that Fannie had of the family feud;tears stood in her soft eyes, and the rosy lips trembled; but herhusband's bright glance, and gentle pressure of her hand, reassuredher. There was no more warmth that day--during the ceremony and thebrief stay of the newly married. The sisters gathered around theyoung wife, and the brothers around Harwood. Occasional words wereinterchanged; but there reigned an invisible barrier, that seemed tosay "so far shalt thou come but no farther."
When the carriage stood at the door and Fannie and Harwood steppedin, she stretched out her pretty hand and beckoned to the elderbrother and sister; they approached; she took a hand of each, sayingin a trembling voice:
"You both breathe the same air; the same beautiful sunlight shinesupon you; you pray to the same God, both say 'forgive us ourtrespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' Be examplesfor those younger--let me join your hands--" But the sister, with afrown, threw aside the little hand rudely, the brother pressed theone he held, but laughed maliciously. The carriage drove on, and thefair head rested sobbing upon the shoulder of her husband. Sadly didhe relate to her the family feud, a quarrel of ten years' standing;sisters against brothers, resting on a belief of unfairness in thedisposition of the will of a relation. The sisters passed thebrothers upon the street without speaking, refused them admittanceto their house. Harwood being the youngest, was too young to takepart in the quarrel, and had never been expected to do so.
Poor Fannie wept bitterly; but tears more bitter yet were in storefor her.
PART II.
Upon her return from the bridal tour, no sooner was Fannie settledin her new home, than the family feud endeavoured to draw her fromher quiet course, to take part for or against. Numberless were thegrievances related to her. All that could be said or done, toconvince her that the sisters were "sinned against instead ofsinning," were brought forward.
"Well, Fannie," said the elder brother, one day, "I met my immaculateelder sister, just coming out of your door. Has she been giving youa catalogue of fraternal sins? She would not speak to me. Shecarries her head high. It maddens me to think how contemptuously weare treated, and being food for talk beside."
Fannie hesitated; she could not reply, for Jessie had been venting afit of ill humour upon him, and it was only adding fuel to the fire,to repeat.
"Say, Fannie, what did the old maid say? That it was a, pity wewere not all dead?"
"Oh! hush," she replied, holding up her hand reprovingly. "I am veryunhappy at your continued disagreements. If," she continued,timidly, "you would but take a little advice--I know I am young,but--
"Let us have it," he returned, quickly, turning away from thepleading eyes.
"You will not be angry with me?"
"No, no; let me hear!"
"You are the eldest; your example, is followed by the seven brothers;your influence with them is great; you give an 'eye for an eye, atooth for a tooth.' Jessie and the others may have a foundation fortheir ill-will. You have never endeavoured to discover what this is.Your pride took offence, and you say to yourself that can neverbend. Was this right?"
Her voice trembled, her head drooped, and in spite of herself-command, she burst into tears.
"Fannie! sister Fannie!"
"Don't mind me; I am weak, nervous, foolish. I shall soon be better;but it makes me so very unhappy to see you all at enmity. I hadhoped, when I came among you, to have been the olive branch,but--"
"Fannie! dear sister Fannie!" he exclaimed, walking up and down theroom, "you have been--we are fire-brands plucked from the burning.You have said all that any one could have said; yes, and done allthat could be done; never repeated any malicious speech, selectedall the wheat that could be culled from the chaff. You have softenedmy obdurate heart. I have done wrong; you have shown me to the wayof return. If Jessie will come forward and forgive and forget, thenwill I."
But Fannie knew that it was not so easy to make Jessie be the firstto own her errors and forgive. The brothers had done much to makethe division wider, in the way of hints and malicious whisperings;and she continued weeping so wildly and hysterically, that the elderbrother endeavoured to console her, and was glad when Harwood came,and lifting her in his arms, carried her up to her room.
When he returned, the elder brother still stood by the fire-place.He turned and spoke.
"Fannie is very fragile and pale. Is she not well?"
"Not very. This family feud troubles her. She has taken it to heart.When we were first married, she told me a dozen plans she had madefor your reunion, and made me a party to them, but now--"
He sighed; the elder brother sighed more deeply; both were silent;the fire-light leaped up, lighting the room--a fierce, avengingblaze; then died out, and all was gloom. Where were the thoughts ofthat elder brother? They were wandering among the graves of thepast. In his imagination, new ones were there; the names on thetomb-stones were familiar; the thirteen were all there; twelvesleeping; his the only restless, wandering spirit. Fannie stoodbefore him, her face pale and tearful. She pointed to the graves,and said, sadly, "This is the end of all earthly things." That nighthe knocked at the door of his sister's mansion but gained noadmittance.
PART III
The anniversary of Fannie's bridal was the counterpart of theoriginal. Sunny and genial, with here and there a white cloudfloating near the horizon, denoting a long and happy married life,with but threatening troubles. How was the prophecy realized? Likeall riddles of earthly solution, to the contrary?
The eight brothers, with faces of stern grief in the same oldcorner, side by side; the five sisters sobbing, tearful and quiteoverwhelmed with sorrow, sat opposite, Their eyes were fixed uponthe same pair. Harwood knelt beside a couch in the middle of theroom, and there lay Fannie; but how changed! They had all beensummoned there, to see that new sister depart for another world; tosee the young breath grow fainter and fainter; the bright eyes closefor ever on them and their love. Oh! mystery of Life! thee we canknow and understand; but, mystery of Death, dark and fearful, onlythy chosen ones can comprehend thee. We walk to the verge of thevalley of the shadow of death with those we love; but there oursteps are stayed, and we look into the black void with wonder anddespair. Oh! faith! if ye come not then to the rescue, that death iseternal.
Thus felt the thirteen; all older, care-worn, world-weary, standingbeside the mere child-sister of the family, whose star of life wassetting from their view behind an impassable mountain.
The sweet face was calm, but a hectic flush lay upon the cheek, asthough some life-chord still bound her to earth.
"My child," said the old white-haired physician, "if you have aughtto say, speak now; when you will awaken from the sleep this draughtwill produce, it may then be too late."
"My darling Fannie," said the kneeling Harwood, "for my sake let nothoughts of earth disturb you; all will be well if--"
His voice was broken. He bowed his head upon the wasted hand heheld, and wept.
"All will be well," she said, smiling faintly. "I feel it now.Jessie, and you, elder brother, come near; nearer yet. I love youboth, love you all. Having no relatives of my own, my husband's aredoubly mine. My heart, since our marriage-day, has been living inthe hope of your reconciliation. I was too young; I undertook toomuch. I wept when my health began to fail; I did not then know thatGod was giving me my wish. I would have died to have seen you allhappy. He has heard my prayer; the sacrifice is made; I go happy.Jessie, my dying wish is to see you once more the forgiving girl youwere, when you knelt with your brothers at your mother's knee. Oh!the chain of family love is never so rudely broken but it can berenewed. Jessie, the young lover, who died in his youth, wouldcounsel you to forgive. The beloved parent would whisper, 'love thybrother as thyself;' He who bore the cross said 'Father forgivethem--.' Jessie, a weak, dying girl begs you, for her sake, to betrue to yourself."
Jessie fell upon her brother's neck, and wept. One universal sobarose from lip to lip. Brothers and sisters so long estranged,rushed into each other's arms. Some cried aloud, others' tearsflowed silently: some there were, whose calm joys betrayed thedisquietude of long years of disunion. They were all recalled byHarwood's voice.
"Fannie! Fannie! This excitement will kill her."
Half raised in the bed, her cheeks scarlet and eyes glowing withperfect delight, the sunlight making a halo around her head, was theyoung wife. She drank the draught the old physician gave her, withher eyes fixed on her husband. She murmured,
"'Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'"
With a sigh she dropped back upon the pillow; the eyes closed, theface became waxen white. Soon, those who watched could not tell herslumber from the sleep of death. Silence stole on tiptoe through theroom, with her finger on her lip--
While the sunset kept shining and shining between The old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green.
PART IV.
Day was dawning in the watch room; the lamp was dying away, thethirteen with pale expectant faces, now shadowed by fear, nowlighted with hope, were motionless. With his face bowed upon hisarms, Harwood had neither looked up nor spoken since Fannie slept.The old clock had struck each hour from the dial of time into theabyss of the past. Never before had time seemed to them so precious,worth so much.
The physician with his fingers upon the patient's pulse had sat allnight; once he placed his hand over her mouth, and rising with apuzzled look, walked to the window and thrust his head into thevines; then drawing his hand over his eyes, he resumed his place,and all was silent again, save the clock with its monotonous tick,tick, beating as calmly as, though human passions were trifles, andthe passing away of a soul from earth, only the falling of theniches of eternity.
The sun arose, and a little bird alighting on a spray near thewindow, poured a flood of melody into the room. The sleeper smiled;the doctor could have sworn it was so. Her breath comes morequickly, you could see it now, fluttering between her lips; sheopened her eyes and fixed them on Harwood; he took her hand and gaveher the cordial prepared by the physician.
"She is saved," was telegraphed through the apartment. The brothersprepared to go to their duties. The sisters divided, part to gohome, the rest to stay and watch Fannie. Harwood, with a radiant yetanxious face, could not be persuaded to lie down, but still held thelittle hand and counted the life beats of her heart.
"Ah! well!" said the old doctor to the elder brother, as he buttonedhis coat and pressed his hat down upon his head. "Well; there wasone great doubt upon my mind--in spite of all favourablesymptoms--she was too good for earth;--it says somewhere--and itkept coming into my mind all the night long--'Blessed are thepeace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God.'"