THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset,for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fillsthe sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the newmoon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be astupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most heavenlydreams!
But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming moodthis lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utterhelplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is tooacutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, inbeautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes,and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest toher; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless windsthey come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none cantell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not asthey, purposeless.
If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved itto a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes oncecherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, andstands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve,miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; shecannot this night stand up and bear her burden with a smile oftriumph.
Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friendMrs. Melville had known from girlhood. She, poor creature, hadneither lived nor died innocent.
On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to thecare of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be amother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years ofthat girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the daywhen she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie had found aparent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville.
This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husbanddied, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought toMelville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of greatwealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it wasfound that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than acompetency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by alife of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meetthis emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retiredto an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave hertime to managing household affairs, and superintending the homeeducation of the children.
Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, untilthe girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in thesame school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever beenable to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatmentof her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that sheshould ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, withother than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein,the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a lightlittle fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions;and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admirationto have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant aswell as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak theright word to and do the right thing with her.
Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriouslyconscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant.She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she haddone a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home andeducation; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, ledher to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil shouldbe eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yetyoung; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might beimpressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with areturn which might well have made the mother proud.
There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood thestory of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. Shewas an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly lovedwith all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all sheknew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never knowmore.
The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was nowtwenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood.In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherishedhope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though theHead of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. Hewas so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest andso honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one wholooked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides hisgentleness, that without which his character might have subsidedinto a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence forduty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his motheramong women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order;perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were onlyequal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world.
His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to winsouls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of histhemes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepestinterest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending theprofession he had chosen, looked on this young man.
Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which boundthem together--members of one family--and they never calledthemselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduatefrom college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to lookas a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw herelegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other thanfraternal affection was in his heart for her.
And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken hispassion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago madehim the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back,after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke herearly decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language ofDuncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him.
During the years which followed his return from college, till he wasprepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once speak to herof his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, asthe river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every dayfresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that comminglewith it. Duncan Melville never thought of wedding another thanRosalie Sherwood.
It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, whenhe felt, for the first time, as though he had a right to speakopenly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soullanguage, he had long before asked, a question which she had asemphatically, in like language, answered--to be his partner forlife, in weal or woe.
He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christianminister should consider the character of her whom he would make thesharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside,Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. Shewas truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane andcharitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full ofreverence and veneration.
He knew that it was only a fear that she should not adorn theChristian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, andhe loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "onthe Lord's side," and that grace, ere long, would be given to her,to proclaim it in doing all His commandments.
It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after hehad spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her ofthe whole of that bright future which opened now before him.
How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melvilletold him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, forthe first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of thatstain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore.
He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy thatwould have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother,he declared,
"Yet for all that, I will not give her up."
"It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement.Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of thematter."
"But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it notenough that she is good and precious to me? She is a noble woman,whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty."
"God knows, I have striven to do my duty by her, but I know what Ishould have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change yourrelations with her, Duncan."
"The world has not her equal! It is cruel--it is sinful--in you,mother, to oppose our union."
"She is a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her."
"No not one! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what youhave told me to her!"
"Never."
"Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish anotherdaughter."
"But for that I have told you, I could not wish another."
"Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalieloves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart."
"You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would neverspeak so to me," said the mother, with that persisting firmness withwhich the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperatedisease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he mightyet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possiblymight follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and theconference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and atrembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke,and he said,
"If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, isjust, He will give me--He will give Rosalie, too--strength to abideby it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find anotherhome than yours and hers. You must speak for me, mother; and letme charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her all. Let her thinkwhat she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, pastpardon; but do not blight her peace by telling all."
"I promise you, Duncan," was the answer, spoken through many tears,and in the deepest sorrow.
An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he mightspend the coming Sabbath in another town.
And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearlyloved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; shehad seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew theconference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So shehushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veilthe brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at herdoor that announced the mother coming.
As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went intothe pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of allthe strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as asupport in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it hadbeen a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake,she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take awaytheir life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; andmany moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit toutter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, butunsuspecting, at last exclaimed,
"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?"
Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faintwith emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said,
"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, hasgiven me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before.Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it hasbeen my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell himthat such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband;you can never be his wife."
She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter anothersyllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment asshe listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and shetried to say, calmly,
"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that Ishould know it."
"It cannot be known. If I had ever in my life deceived you,Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that animpediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have Inot been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly,imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to theheart to grieve you."
"Has Duncan given you an answer?"
"Yes, Rosalie."
"And it--?"
"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly.
"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie.
"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove themisery of you both, my child."
"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If thething is really true, his lips should have spoken it, and notanother's."
"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Donot look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that Ishall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of yourcompanionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do thebest for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, say it."
"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come homeagain?"
"Monday; not before."
When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letterwas found:--
"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from yourprotecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. Ihave no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! ourunion, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot anylonger live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. Iwould have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as aslave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have donefor me, to be with you always--at least so long as you could wish.If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand beforeyou, recognising myself as you know me, I would have stayed. Iwould have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood--a proud yethumble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by sympathyin your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; thein-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. Iknow I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but ina mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too muchhas been required, and I am found--wanting! If even the mostmiserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse ofillegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, andacknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fitassociate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride andfondness.
"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation,whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent toappear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me assuch.
"Mother--in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generouslove you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which youhave attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For Iam now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchfulguardianship that has made me what I am, a woman--self-reliant andstrong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only tolove and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down theblessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter,always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you--to be allthat you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be.Duncan, you will not forget me?
"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness ofyour being--of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happyfuture for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance ofencouragement to leave you--you will not need such from me. Godbless and strengthen you in every good word and work--it shall bethe constant hope of the sister who loves you. Mother, farewell!"
This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our storyopens--written in a perfect passion--yes, of grief, and of despair.The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to thewildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart wasreally strong to bear the resolution out.
After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother andson sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. Buttheir search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she becameto the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widowwas she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart thatsorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope forher.
He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women.When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the ministerapplied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verilyhe met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the peopleof his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritualphysician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and strickenheart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself,which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it withmartyr-like patience--that he never uttered a reproachful word toher through whom he bore it.
As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence,and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul withanother love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought notamong any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, atlast, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance ofduty, that "he was too high-church to marry,"--that he did notbelieve such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But themother knew better than this--she knew a name that was neverspoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to theheart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, shenever dared ask him to give to her a daughter--to take untohimself a wife.
In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward,on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated.
A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother ofDuncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company,for it was on her son that the high honour was to be laid.
How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who,in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fillthat great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was aman "acquainted with grief,"--you had known it by the resigned,submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passionsof mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in histranquil eyes. Duncan had toiled--he had born a burden!
A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religionundefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left forthemselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one beingfelt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since thelines of grief and care had marked the face and form of DuncanMelville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart,crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no othervoice could give to the prayers which went up to God from onewoman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving,still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figurebent humbly from the very commencement to the close of theceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, andgrief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblestflower--the glorious beauty!
And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praiseascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour heremembered how one would have looked on him that day, could shehave come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the peopleloved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at thealtar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought uponthe name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon toappear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbedwith expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when theyshould look upon her.
Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he mightbe for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon he was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud andhappy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on thetable and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. Whenhe had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note andread--could it have been with careless eyes?
"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, andwitnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate andwretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny.Come, to-night, and behold my triumph--at--the opera-house!
"Your sister,
ROSALIE."
Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as towhether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed byit, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended hisfootsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had beenstrengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, wasnot now to stop, to question or to fear.
"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagementfor you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to thecathedral for afternoon service.
"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her toher word.
But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt toconceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definitereply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in anobscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all herexpressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause thanthe mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared uponthe stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail whichopens the first scene in----.
For years there had not been such a sensation created among thefrequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of thisstranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impressionthat was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, everytone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the veryembodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and theeffect was a complete triumph.
Mary Melville and her son gazed on the debutante--they had noword, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice thetones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and everynote found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart.
"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--foryou. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea,when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in herplace.
"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears andtrembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers inthat very hour ascended. "She is mine now, and no earthlyconsideration or power shall divide us."
And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the ladyturned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yieldthen, and she had fears for the future.
A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendentin beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice wasraised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, butglad and gay, angelic in its joy.
Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a lightwas on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness inthose eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; butthough she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood theadmiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfectionin her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! herwoman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter ofher care and love must have passed before she came into thatpresence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistressof herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled?
That night and the following day, there were many who soughtadmittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay thehomage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought invain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not whatthe noble woman sought; and because, ere she had risen in themorning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed toher, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world.
"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; Iam answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousandtimes answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which havecrowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met--met atlast--you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood inGod's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me?Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then--and thinking, too,that if this honor was in any way to be considered a reward, theneedful part was wanting--you were not there! Yet you were there,you have written me; ah! but not Rosalie, my wife, the woman Iloved better than all on earth--the acknowledged woman, herwhose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful partof my existence. You were by when the people came to see meconsecrated--and I obeyed your call; I saw you when the peopleanointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If youread my heart at all, to-day, you knew how I had suffered--yousaw that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in thethought that you, too, had not been unmindful of our past; thatyou were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also,have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in thepath of duty with weariness?
"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interposebetween us--Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything toyou, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not letyour triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you oncerecognised, which can make us happy yet. I trust you as in ouryounger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince methat you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladiesof this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful toyou through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should riseup, to condemn me. Let me come and plead with you, for I know notwhat I write."
The answer returned to this letter was as follows:--
"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is inexistence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it beinsurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted yourfaithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to knowthat none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations,and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above andbeyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be butthe opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of whatyou are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, anda stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I amyours for ever."
Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of thatremote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passedtheir childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where thebaptismal service had long since been read for them, and the motherof the bishop gave the bride away!
THE END.
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