I started my horse.
"Let's be going, Jessie," I said. "It's our duty to feel insulted. He accuses your mistress of being deceitful among her friends, and says he likes her when she's cross."
He laughed lightly, and walked along by my side.
"How are your ladies? and when will Miss Lucy come to ride out with me?" I asked, fearing a look into his eyes.
This brought him down. I knew it would.
He answered that she was well, and walked along with his head down, quite like another man. At length he looked up, very pale, and put his hand on my bridle.
"I want to put a case to you," he said. "Suppose a man to have made some engagement before his mind was mature, and under a strong outside pressure of which he was not aware. When he grows to a better knowledge of the world and himself, and finds that he has been half cheated, and that to keep his word will entail lasting misery and ruin on himself, without really benefiting any one else, is he bound to keep it?"
I stopped an instant to press my heart back, and then I answered him.
"A promise is a promise, Mr. Ames. I have thought that a man of honor valued his word more than happiness or life."
He flushed a moment, and then looked down again; and we walked on slowly, without a word, over the stubbly ground, and through brooklets and groves and thickets, towards home. If I could only reach there before he spoke again! How could I hold out to do my duty, if I were tempted any farther? At last he checked the horse, and, putting his hand heavily on mine, looked me full in the face, while his was pale and agitated.
"Rachel," he said, huskily, "if a man came to you and said, 'I am bound to another; but my heart, my soul, my life are at your feet,' would you turn him away?"
I gasped one long breath of fresh air.
"Do I look like a woman who would take a man's love at second hand?" I said, haughtily. "Women like me must respect the man they marry, Sir."
He dropped his hand, and turned away his head, with a deep-drawn breath. I saw him stoop and lift himself again, as though some weight were laid upon his shoulders. I saw the muscles round and ridgy upon his clenched hand. "All this for a silly, shallow thing, who knows nothing of the heart she loses!" some tempter whispered, and passionate words of love rushed up and beat hard against my shut teeth. "Get thee behind me!" I muttered, and resolutely started my horse forward. "Not for her,but for myself,for self-respect! The best love in the world shall not buy that!"
He came along beside me, silent, and stepping heavily, and thus we went to the leafy lane that came out near my house. There I stopped; for I felt that this must end now.
"Mr. Ames, you must leave this place, directly," I said, with as much sternness as I could assume. "If you please, I will bid you good-bye, now."
"Not see you again, Rachel?" he exclaimed, sharply. "No! not that! Forgive me, if I have said too much; but don't send me away!"
He took my hand in both his, and gazed as one might for a sentence of life or death.
"Will you let a woman's strength shame you?" I cried, desperately. "I thought you were a man of honor, Mr. Ames. I trusted you entirely, but I will never trust any one again."
He dropped my hand, and drew himself up.
"You are right, Rachel! you are right," he said, after a moment's thought. "No one must trust me, and be disappointed. I have never forgotten that before; please God, I never will again. But must I say farewell here?"
"It is better," I said.
"Good-bye, then, dear friend!dear friend!" he whispered. "If you ever love any better than yourself, you will know how to forgive me."
I felt his kiss on my hand, and felt, rather than saw, his last look, for I dared not raise my eyes to his; and I knew that he had turned back, and that I had seen the last of him. For one instant I thought I would follow and tell him that he did not suffer alone; but before my horse was half turned, I was myself again.
"Fool!" I said. "If you let the dam down, can you push the waters back again? Would that man let anything upon earth stand between him and a woman that loved him? Let him go so. He'll forget you in six months."
I had to endure a farewell call from Lucy and her mother. Mr. Ames had received a sudden summons home, and they were to accompany him a part of the way. The elder scrutinized me very closely, but I think she got nothing to satisfy her; the younger kissed and shed tears enough for the parting of twin sisters. How I hated her! In a couple of days they were gone, Mr. Ames calling to see me when he knew me to be out, and leaving a civil message only. The house was closed, the faded leaves fell all about the doorway, and the grass withered upon the little lawn.
"That play is over, and the curtain dropped," I said to myself, as I took one long look towards the old house, and closed the shutters that opened that way.
You who have suffered some great loss, and stagger for want of strength to walk alone, thank God for work. Nothing like that for bracing up a feeble heart! I worked restlessly from morning till night, and often encroached on what should have been sleep. Hard work, real sinewy labor, was all that would content me; and I found enough of it. To have been a proper heroine, I suppose I should have devoted myself to works of charity, read sentimental poetry, and folded my hands very meekly and prettily; but I did no such thing. I ripped up carpets, and scoured paint, and swept down cobwebs, I made sweetmeats and winter clothing, I dug up and set out trees, and smoothed the turf in my garden, and tramped round my fields with the man behind me, to see if the fences needed mending, or if the marshes were properly drained, or the fallow land wanted ploughing. It made me better. All the sickliness of my grief passed away, and only the deep-lying regret was left like a weight to which my heart soon became accustomed. We can manage trouble much better than we often do, if we only choose to try resolutely.
I had but one relapse. It was when I got news of their marriage. I remember the day with a peculiar distinctness; for it was the first snow-storm of the season, and I had been out walking all the afternoon. It was one of those soft, leaden-colored, expectant days, of late autumn or early winter, when one is sure of snow; and I went out on purpose to see it fall among the woods; for it was just upon Christmas, and I longed to see the black ground covered. By-and-by a few flakes sauntered down, coquetting as to where they would alight; then a few more followed, thickening and thickening until the whole upper air was alive with them, and the frozen ridges whitened along their backs, and every little stiff blade of grass or rush or dead bush held all it could carry. It was pleasant to see the quiet wonder go on, until the landscape was completely changed,to walk home scuffing the snow from the frozen road on which my feet had ground as I came that way, and see the fences full, and the hollows heaped up level, and the birches bent down with their hair hidden, and the broad arms of the fir-trees loaded, like sombre cotton-pickers going home heavily laden. Then to see the brassy streak widen in the west, and the cold moon hang astonished upon the dead tops of some distant pine-trees, was to enjoy a most beautiful picture, with only the cost of a little fatigue.
When I got home, I found among my letters one from Mr. Ames. He could not leave the country without pleading once more for my esteem, he wrote. He had not intended to marry until he could think more calmly of the past; but Lucy's mother had married again very suddenly into a family where her daughter found it not pleasant to follow her. She was poor, without very near relatives now, and friends, on both sides, had urged the marriage. He had told her the state of his feelings, and offered, if she could overlook the want of love, to be everything else to her. She should never repent the step, and he prayed me, when I thought of him, to think as leniently as possible. Alas! now I must not think at all.
How I fought that thought,how I worked by day, and studied deep into the night, filling every hour full to the brim with activity, seems now a feverish dream to me. Such dead thoughts will not be buried out of sight, but lie cold and stiff, until the falling foliage of seasons of labor and experience eddies round them, and moss and herbs venture to grow over their decay, and birds come slowly and curiously to sing a little there. In time, the mound is beautiful with the richness of the growth, but the lord of the manor shudders as he walks that way. For him, it is always haunted.
Thus with me. I knew that the sorrow was doing me good, that it had been needed long, and I tried to profit by it, as the time came when I could think calmly of it all. I thought I had ceased to love him; but the news of her death (for she died in two years) taught me better. I heard of him from others,that he had been most tender and indulgent to a selfish, heartless woman, who trifled with his best feelings, and almost broke his heart before she went. I heard that he had one child, a poor little blind baby, for whom the mother had neither love nor care, and that he still continued abroad. But from himself I never heard a word. No doubt he had forgotten me, as I had always thought he would.
More than two years passed, and spring-time was upon us, when I heard that he had returned to the country, and was to be married shortly to a wealthy, beautiful widow he had found abroad. At first we heard that he was married, and then that he was making great preparations, but would not marry until autumn. Even the bride's dress was described, and the furniture of the house of which she was to be mistress. I had expected some such thing, but it added one more drop of bitterness to the yearning I had for him. It was so hard to think him like any other man!
However, now, as before, I covered up the wound with a smiling face, and went about my business. I had been making extensive improvements on my farm, and kept out all day often, over-seeing the laborers. One night, a soft, starlight evening in late May, I came home very tired, and, being quite alone, sat down on the portico to watch the stars and think. I had not been long there, when a man's step came up the avenue, and some person, I could not tell who in the darkness, opened the gate, and came slowly up towards me. I rose, and bade him good-evening.
"Is it you, Rachel?" he said, quite faintly. It was his voice. Thank Heaven for the darkness! The hand I gave him might tremble, but my face should betray nothing. I invited him into the parlor, and rang for lights.
"He's come to see about selling the old house," I thought; there was a report that he would sell it by auction. When the lights came, he looked eagerly at me.
"Am I much changed?" I said, with a half-bitter smile.
"Not so much as I," he answered, sighing and looking down;he seemed to be in deep thought for a moment.
He was much changed. His hair was turning gray; his face was thin, with a subdued expression I had never expected to see him wear. He must have suffered greatly; and, as I looked, my heart began to melt. That would not do; and besides, what was the need of pity, when he had consoled himself? I asked some ordinary question about his journey, and led him into a conversation on foreign travel.
The evening passed away as it might with two strangers, and he rose to go, with a grave face and manner as cold as mine,for I had been very cold. I followed him to the door, and asked how long he stayed at Huntsville.
Only a part of the next day, he said; his child could not be left any longer; but he wished very much to see me, and so had contrived to get a few days.
"Indeed!" I said. "You honor me. Your Huntsville friends scarcely expected to be remembered so long."
"They have not done me justice, then," he said, quietly. "I seem to have the warmest recollection of any. Good-night, Miss Mead. I shall not be likely to see you again."
He gave me his hand, but it was very cold, and I let it slip as coldly from mine. He went down the gravel-walk slowly and heavily, and he certainly sighed as he closed the gate. Could I give him up thus? "Down pride! You have held sway long enough! I must part more kindly, or die!" I ran down the gravel-walk and overtook him in the avenue. He stopped as I came up, and turned to meet me.
"Forgive me," I said, breathlessly. "I could not part with old friends so, after wishing so much for them."
He took both my hands in his. "Have you wished for me, Rachel?" he said, tenderly. "I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so little kindness."
"I was afraid to be warmer," I said.
"Afraid of what?" he asked.
My mouth was unsealed. "Are you to be married?" I asked.
"I have no such expectation," he answered.
"And are not engaged to any one?"
"To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show yourself to me?"
"Yes!" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently round me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating fast against my own.
"Rachel," he whispered, "the only woman I ever did or ever can love, will you send me away again?"
A SHETLAND SHAWL
It was made of the purest and finest wool,
As fine as silk, and as soft and cool;
It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue
Which has a shadowy tinge of blue;
And brought by the good ship, miles and miles,
From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles.
And in it were woven, here and there,
The golden threads of a maiden's hair,
As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls
Blew in and out of her floating curls,
While her busy fingers swiftly drew
The ivory needle through and through.
The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes
Of the purple and golden butterflies,
And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune,
Hummed in the perfumed air of June,
As the gossamer fabric, fair to view,
Under the maiden's fingers grew.
The shadows of tender thought arise
In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes,
And her blushing cheek bears the first impress
Of the spirit's awakening consciousness,
Like the rose, when it bursts, in a single hour,
From the folded bud to the perfect flower.
Many a tremulous hope and care,
Many a loving wish and prayer,
With the blissful dreams of one who stood
At the golden gate of womanhood,
The little maiden's tireless hands
Wove in and out of the shining strands.
The buds that burst in an April sun
Had seen the wonderful shawl begun;
It was finished, and folded up with pride,
When the vintage purpled the mountain-side;
And smiles made light in the violet eyes,
At the thought of a lover's pleased surprise.
The spider hung from the budding thorn
His baseless web, when the shawl was worn;
And the cobwebs, silvered by the dew,
With the morning sunshine breaking through,
The maiden's toil might well recall,
In the vanished year, on the Shetland Shawl.
For the rose had died in the autumn showers,
That bloomed in the summer's golden hours;
And the shining tissue of hopes and dreams,
With misty glories and rainbow gleams
Woven within and out, was one
Like the slender thread by the spider spun.
As fresh and as pure as the sad young face,
The snowy shawl with its clinging grace
Seems a fitting veil for a form so fair:
But who would think what a tale of care,
Of love and grief and faith, might all
Be folded up in a Shetland Shawl?