AUTUMNAL LEAVES.

AUTUMNAL LEAVES:

TALES AND SKETCHES

IN

PROSE AND RHYME.


BY

L. MARIA CHILD.

NEW YORK:
C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 554 BROADWAY.
BOSTON:—53 DEVONSHIRE STREET.
1857.


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
By C. S. Francis & Co.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.




Several of the articles contained in this volume have appeared in various periodicals ten or twelve years ago. Others have been recently written, during the hours that could be spared from daily duties.

CONTENTS.

THE EGLANTINE,

A simple Love Story,

FOUNDED ON A ROMANTIC INCIDENT, WHICH OCCURRED IN
THE FAR WEST, ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO.

“Yes, mamma; and it seems quite useless for a servant to be so handsome. What good will it do her?” She glanced at the mirror, as she spoke, and seemed less satisfied than usual with her own pretty face. She was thinking to herself, “If I had as much beauty as she has, I shouldn’t despair of winning a duke.”

A similar idea flashed across Mrs. Vernon’s mind, as she noticed the involuntary appeal to the mirror. Therefore, she sighed as she answered, “Instead of doing her good, it will doubtless prove a misfortune. Some dissipated lord will take a fancy to her; but he will soon become weary of her, and will marry her to the first good-natured clown, who can be hired to take her.”

“Very likely,” replied Miss Julia; “and after living with a nobleman, she can never be happy with a person of her own condition.” The prospect of such a future in reserve for the rustic beauty seemed by no means painful to the aristocratic young lady. Indeed, one might conjecture, from her manner, that she regarded it as no more than a suitable punishment for presuming to be handsomer than her superiors in rank.

A flush passed over the countenance of her brother Edward, who sat reading at the opposite window; but the ladies, busy with their embroidery and netting, did not observe it. The lower extremity of their grounds was separated from Mrs. Barton’s merely by a hedge of hawthorns. A few weeks previous, as he was walking there, his attention had been attracted by joyful exclamations from their neighbour’s children, over a lupine that began to show its valves above the ground. He turned involuntarily, and when he saw the young girl who accompanied them, he felt a little glow of pleasant surprise curl around his heart, as if some entirely new and very beautiful wild flower had unexpectedly appeared before him. That part of the garden became his favourite place of resort; and if a day passed without his obtaining a glimpse of the lovely stranger, he was conscious of an undefined feeling of disappointment. One day, when the children were playing near by, their India-rubber ball bounced over into Mrs. Vernon’s grounds. When he saw them searching for it among the hawthorns, he reached across the hedge and presented it to their attendant. He raised his hat and bowed, as he did so; and she blushed as she took it from his hand. After this accidental introduction, he never passed her without a similar salutation; and she always coloured at a mark of courtesy so unusual from a gentleman to a person in her humble condition. The degree of interest she had excited in his mind rendered it somewhat painful to hear his mother’s careless prophecy of her future destiny.

A few days afterward, he was walking with his sister, when Mrs. Barton’s maid passed with the children. Miss Julia graciously accosted the little ones, but ignored the presence of their attendant. Seeing her brother make his usual sign of deferential politeness, she exclaimed, “What a strange person you are, Edward! One would suppose you were passing a duchess. I dare say you would do just the same if cousin Alfred were with us.”

“Certainly I should,” he replied. “I am accustomed to regulate my actions by my own convictions, not by those of another person. You know I believe in such a thing as natural nobility.”

“And if a servant happens to have a pretty face, you consider her a born duchess, I suppose,” said Julia.

“Such kind of beauty as that we have just passed, where the pliant limbs move with unconscious dignity, and harmonized features are illuminated by a moral grace, that emanates from the soul, does seem to me to have received from Nature herself an unmistakeable patent of nobility.”

“So you know this person?” inquired his sister.

He replied, “I have merely spoken to her on the occasion of returning a ball, that one of the children tossed over into our grounds. But casually as I have seen her, her countenance and manners impress me with the respect that you feel for high birth.”

“It’s a pity you were not born in the back-woods of America,” retorted his sister, pettishly.

“I sometimes think so myself,” he quietly replied. “But let us gather some of these wild flowers, Julia, instead of disputing about conventional distinctions, concerning which you and I can never agree.”

His sister coldly accepted the flowers he offered. Her temper was clouded by the incident of the morning. It vexed her that Edward had never said, or implied, so much concerning her style of beauty; and she could not forgive the tendencies of mind which spoiled him for the part she wished him to perform in the world, as a means of increasing his own importance, and thereby advancing her interests. She had the misfortune to belong to an English family extensively connected with the rich and aristocratic, without being themselves largely endowed with wealth. Cousin Alfred, the son of her father’s older brother, was heir to a title; and consequently she measured every thing by his standard. The income of the family was more than sufficient for comfort and gentility; but the unfortunate tendency to assume the habits of others as their standard rendered what might have been a source of enjoyment a cause of discontent.

Their life was a constant struggle to keep up appearances beyond their means. All natural thoughts and feelings were kept in perpetual harness; drilled to walk blindfolded the prescribed round of conventional forms, like a horse in a bark-mill; with this exception, that their routine spoiled the free paces of the horse, without grinding any bark. Edward’s liberal soul had early rebelled against this system. He had experienced a vague consciousness of walking in fetters ever since he was reproved for bringing home a favourite school-mate to pass the vacation with him, when he was twelve years old. He could not then be made to understand why a manly, intelligent, large-hearted boy, who was a tradesman’s son, was less noble than young Lord Smallsoul, cousin Alfred’s school-friend; and within the last few weeks, circumstances had excited his thoughts to unusual activity concerning natural and artificial distinctions. As he walked in the garden, book in hand, he never failed to see the beautiful nursery-maid, if she were anywhere within sight; and she always perceived him. In her eyes, he was like a bright, far-off star; while he was refreshed by a vision of her, as he was by the beauty of an opening flower. Distinction of rank was such a fixed fact in the society around them, that the star and the flower dreamed of union as much as they did. But Cupid, who is the earliest republican on record, willed that things should not remain in that state. A bunch of fragrant violets were offered with a smile and received with a blush; and in the blush and the smile an arrow lay concealed. Then volumes of poems were loaned with passages marked; and every word of those passages were stereotyped on the heart of the reader. For a long time, he was ignorant of her name; but hearing the children call her Sibella, he inquired her other name, and they told him it was Flower. He thought it an exceedingly poetic and appropriate name; as most young men of twenty would have thought, under similar circumstances. He noticed the sequestered lanes where she best loved to rove, when sent out with the children for exercise; and those lanes became his own favourite places of resort. Wild flowers furnished a graceful and harmless topic of conversation; yet Love made even those simple things his messengers. Patrician Edward offered the rustic Sibella an Eglantine, saying, “This has a peculiar charm for me, above all flowers. It is so fragrant and delicately tinted; so gracefully untrained, and so modest in its pretensions. It always seems to me like a beautiful young maiden, without artificial culture, but naturally refined and poetic. The first time I saw you, I thought of a flowering Eglantine; and I have never since looked at the shrub, without being reminded of you.” She listened, half abashed and half delighted. She never saw the flower again without thinking of him.

The next day after this little adventure, she received a copy of Moore’s Melodies, with her name elegantly written therein. The songs, all sparkling with fancy and warm with love, were well suited to her sixteen years, and to that critical period in her heart’s experience. She saw in them a reflection of her own young soul dreamily floating in a fairy-boat over moon-lighted waters. The mystery attending the gift increased its charm. The postman left it at the door, and no one knew whence it came. Within the same envelope was a pressed blossom of the Eglantine, placed in a sheet of Parisian letter-paper, gracefully ornamented with a coloured arabesque of Eglantines and German Forget-me-nots. On it the following verses were inscribed:—

TO SIBELLA FLOWER.

A note at the bottom of the verses explained that the French word si belle meant so beautiful. The poetry was that of a young man of twenty; but a simple maiden of sixteen, who was herself the subject of the lines, saw more beauty in them, than a critic could find in the best inspirations of Shakespeare or Milton. And then to think that a gentleman, who understood French, should write verses to her! It was wonderful! She would as soon have dreamed of wearing the crown of England. The next time she met Edward Vernon, her cheeks were flushed more deeply than “ocean’s rosy shell.” But she never alluded to the book or the verses; for she said to herself, “Perhaps he did’nt send them; and then I should feel so ashamed of supposing he did!” The secret was half betrayed on his part; whether intentionally or unintentionally, she did not know. He began by calling her Miss Flower; then he called her Sibella; but ever after the reception of the verses, he said Sibelle.

They were so reserved toward each other, and Mrs. Barton’s children were apparently so much the objects of his attention, during their rambles, that their dreamy romance might have gone on uninterrupted for months longer, had not a human foot stepped within their fairy circle. Lord Smallsoul, as he rode abroad one day, was attracted by “the flower si belle.” As his grosser nature and more selfish habits were uncurbed by the respectful diffidence, which restrained Edward’s love, he became bold and importunate in his attentions; as if he took it for granted that any rural beauty could be purchased with a nobleman’s gold. The poor girl could not stir out of doors, without being liable to his unwelcome intrusion; the more unwelcome because the presence of the false lover expelled the true one. Edward kept carefully aloof, watching the proceedings of the profligate nobleman with jealous indignation. He painfully felt that he had no right to assume guardianship over the young girl, and that any attempt to do so would bring him into collision with her persecutor; likely to end in publicity by no means favourable to her reputation. The rural belle was inexperienced in the world’s ways, but she had been trained by a prudent mother, and warned against the very dangers that now beset her path. Therefore, with many blushes, she begged Mrs. Barton to excuse her from walking out with the children; confessing that Lord Smallsoul sought every opportunity of urging her to go and live with him in Italy, though she never would accept one of the many rich presents he was always offering her. Mrs. Barton warmly commended her, and promised protection. After some conversation, she said, “The children tell me that Mr. Vernon has often joined you in your walks. Did he ever say he was in love with you?” Sibella promptly replied, “Never. He is always very respectful.” “And he has never made you any presents, has he?” inquired the lady. The maiden lowered her eyes and blushed deeply. She had been trained to a strict observance of the truth; but she did not know certainly who sent Moore’s Melodies; and heart and conscience both pleaded with her not to say any thing that might involve her friend in blame. After a moment’s hesitation, she answered, evasively, “He has sometimes offered me flowers, madam, when he was gathering them for the children; and I thought it no harm to take them.” The book of poems, and the wonderful verses framed in flowery arabesques, remained a secret between herself and him who sent them. But Mrs. Barton noticed the sudden blush, and the involuntary hesitation; and she resolved to elicit some information from the children, in a manner not likely to excite their curiosity.

Lord Smallsoul, who from infancy had been an object of excessive indulgence, was not to be easily baffled in his selfish plans. Night and day, he, or his confidential servant, was prowling about Mrs. Barton’s grounds. His assiduities became a positive nuisance, and excited much gossip in the neighbourhood. Miss Julia Vernon took occasion to say to Mrs. Barton, “It is really surprising his lordship should make himself so ridiculous, instead of bestowing his attentions upon beautiful ladies whose rank in life is nearer to his own. He knows, however, that ladies would scorn to accept such homage as he bestows upon your servant; and I suppose he is not yet ready to enter into matrimonial bonds.”

Mrs. Barton thought to herself that the dissolute nobleman would receive a very prompt and gracious answer, if he invited Miss Julia to enter into such bonds. She, however, suppressed the smile that was rising to her lips, and said, “I don’t wonder at his being fascinated by Sibella; for she is gifted with extraordinary beauty. I am truly thankful, on her own account, and for the sake of her worthy parents, that she is discreet as she is lovely. I confess, I should myself rejoice in such a daughter.”

There was a slightly contemptuous motion in the muscles of Miss Vernon’s mouth, as she replied, “You appear to think her a paragon. The girl is pretty enough; too pretty for her own good, since she was born to be a servant. But I cannot imagine what attractions she can have for a gentleman, who is accustomed to the distinguished air of ladies of rank.”

“Some people prefer the Eglantine to the Garden Rose,” replied Mrs. Barton. “Your brother is accustomed to ladies of rank; but I imagine he appreciates Sibella’s beauty more highly than you do.”

“What reason have you for thinking so?” quickly inquired Miss Julia.

Half mischievously, and altogether imprudently, Mrs. Barton replied, “The children heard him tell her that she was like an Eglantine, which, of all flowers was his favourite; and they say he always wore an Eglantine in his vest, as long as there was one to be found.”

Up rose Miss Vernon, hastily, and with a haughty toss of the head, said emphatically, “I thank you very much for having told me this. Good morning, madam.”

The amiable neighbour, foreseeing a storm, immediately repented of what she had said; but it was impossible to recall it. She looked out of the window, and saw that Miss Vernon was excited to such a degree as to make her forget the patrician languor, which usually characterized her movements. Obeying an impulse, for once in her life, she walked rapidly across the garden to the paternal mansion. As if a case of life and death were impending, she startled her mother with this abrupt annunciation: “Do go directly to cousin Alfred, and tell him he must devise some means to remove Edward from this neighbourhood, forthwith. You know, he has been promising, for some time past, to secure a suitable situation for him; and unless you see to having it done immediately, you may prepare yourself to have your son disgrace the whole family by marrying a servant.” She then repeated what she had just heard, and added: “You know, mother, that Edward never could be induced to pay so much regard to the distinctions of rank, as he ought to do. It would be just like him to go off to Gretna Green with a servant girl, if he happened to take it into his foolish head that she was a paragon of beauty and virtue.”

Great was the consternation in all branches of the Vernon family; and their alarm was not a little increased when Edward frankly declared that it would be easy to procure a suitable education for Sibella, and then she would be a desirable companion for any gentleman in the land. How his father glowered at him, how his mother wept, and what glances his sister hurled from her haughty eyes, need not be told. He retreated to his own apartment, and for several days remained there most of the time, revolving plans for the future; some of them of the most romantic kind. He longed for a secret interview with Sibella, to avow his love, promise eternal constancy, and obtain from her a similar pledge in return. But his nice sense of honour restrained him from taking any step that might cast a shadow upon her. He made several attempts to see her openly, but he was closely watched, and she never appeared; for Mrs. Barton informed her that the family had taken offence at the attentions he paid her.

The anxious conferences in Edward’s family ended with an announcement from his father that he must prepare to start for Italy the next week, as traveling companion for a young nobleman, about to make the tour of Europe.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vernon and her daughter vented some of their mortification and vexation upon Mrs. Barton; blaming her for keeping such a handsome servant, to make trouble in gentlemen’s families. That lady, becoming more and more uneasy at the state of things, deemed it prudent to write a warning letter to Sibella’s parents; and the good mother came to her child immediately. She found her darling in the depths of girlish misery; alleviated, however, by the happy consciousness that she had nothing to conceal. Weeping on the maternal bosom, she told all her simple story; not even reserving the secret of the book and the verses. But when her mother said they ought to be returned to Mr. Vernon, she remonstrated warmly. “Oh no, mother, don’t ask me to do that! If you do, I shall be sorry I told you. I don’t know that he sent them. He never said so. The Eglantine made me think that he did; but I am afraid I should seem to him like a bold, vain girl, if he knew that I thought so.” Her mother, being assured that no presents had been offered, and love never spoken of, yielded to her argument. She was allowed to retain the precious volume, and the wonderful verses, which were hidden away as carefully as a miser’s treasures.

Mr. Vernon, the father, had a private conversation with Mrs. Flower, the morning after her arrival. He assumed so proud a tone, that he roused a corresponding degree of pride in the worthy woman, who curtly assured him that her daughter would find no difficulty in forming a good connection, and would never be permitted to enter any family that objected to her. The gentleman thanked her, with cold politeness, and she parted from him with a very short courtesy. That evening a note came for Miss Sibella Flower. Mrs. Barton placed it in the mother’s hand, who opened it and read:

Mrs. Flower promptly decided to see the young gentleman herself. He was accordingly sent for, and came full of love and hope. But Sibella, who was kept in ignorance of the note, was requested not to intrude upon their conference; therefore, he saw the mother only. In answer to all his vehement protestations and earnest entreaties, she answered, “Sibella is a mere child; and it is my duty to guard her inexperience. Next to seeing her deceived by false professions, I have always dreaded her marrying into a proud family, who would look down upon her.”

“I will go to America, and make a position for myself, independent of my family, before I ask her to share my destiny,” replied the enthusiastic lover.

“I thank you, Mr. Vernon. You have behaved nobly toward my child; and my heart blesses you for it. But I had a sister, who married above her rank, and I cannot forget the consequences. They were very young when they were married, and never were two young creatures so much in love. She was as good as she was handsome; but his family treated her as if she was’nt worthy to black their shoes; and they had such an influence upon him, that he at last repented of the step he had taken. She felt it, and it made her very miserable. You are young, sir; too young to be certain that your mind won’t change.”

“I know perfectly well that my mind can never change,” he replied eagerly. “This is not such a boyish whim as you seem to suppose. It is a deep, abiding feeling. It is impossible that I can ever change.”

The mother quietly replied, “My sister’s husband said the same; and yet he did change.”

Edward Vernon internally cursed that sister’s heartless husband; but he contented himself with saying; “Such love as his must have been very different from the feelings that inspire me.”

His intreaties were unavailing to procure an interview with Sibella. The prudent mother concealed the fact that he had awakened an interest in her daughter’s heart. To all his arguments she would only shake her head and reply, “You are too young to know your own mind, Mr. Vernon.”

Too young! How cold and contemptuous that sounded! He was not in a state of mind to appreciate the foresight and kindness, which strove to shield him from his own rashness. She seemed to him as proud and hard-hearted as his father; and perhaps pride did help her prudence a little. Yet when he was gone away, the good woman sat down and cried; she sympathized so heartily with the trouble of those young hearts. Sibella sobbed herself to sleep that night, though unconscious that Edward intended to leave England. He watched the window of her chamber till the light of her lamp went out in darkness. “That star will shine for me no more!” he said. He returned slowly to his own room, looked out upon the hawthorn-hedge for a long time, then laid himself down to weep, and dream of green lanes, fragrant with the Eglantine.

The next morning, Mrs. Flower requested her daughter to prepare for their return home, since there was no other way of relieving Mrs. Barton from the perpetual intrusion of the shameless nobleman, and his troublesome servant. Gentle as Sibella was, she experienced a feeling of hatred toward Lord Smallsoul, who, like an odious beast, had rushed into her paradise, trampling its flowers. She did not dispute her mother’s decision, for she felt that it was judicious; but she also stood at the window a long time, looking out upon the hawthorn-hedge, associated with so many pleasant memories. Her eyes were moist when she turned and said, “Mother, before we go away, I should like to bid good-bye to some of the old places, where I have walked with—with—the children. You can go with me, if you are afraid of my meeting Mr. Vernon.”

Sadly and sympathizingly, her mother answered, “You cannot meet Mr. Vernon, my child; for he has gone to Italy.”

“Gone!” she exclaimed; and the sudden paleness and the thrilling tone cut her mother’s heart. She soothed her tenderly, and, after a while, Sibella raised her head, with an effort to assume maidenly pride, and said, “He never told me he loved me. I sometimes thought he did. But it was very foolish of me. If he cared for me, he would have said good-bye. I will think no more about it.”

The mother was strongly tempted to tell how ardently and how honourably he loved. But she thought to herself, “It would only serve to keep alive hopes destined to end in disappointment.” So she put strong constraint on her feminine sympathies, and remained silent. They went forth into the green lanes bright with sunshine, but gloomy to eyes that saw them through a veil of tears. When Sibella came to the bush from which Edward had broken the first Eglantine he offered her, she gazed at it mournfully, and throwing herself on the bosom of her best earthly friend, sobbed out, “Oh mother, mother! I have been so happy here!”

“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don’t know how sorry I am for you. But these feelings will pass away with time. You are very young; and life is all before you.”

The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness in her eyes, and answered, “Yes, mother, I am young; but life is all behind me.”

* * * * *

There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was in Sibella’s life. That brief dream of the past would not unite itself with the actual present. She could form no bridge between them. It remained by itself; like an island warm with sunshine, and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed, all things around her seemed changed. The young men, especially, appeared like a different race of beings, since she had learned to compare them with that poetic youth, who gazed so reverently at the evening star, and loved the wild-flowers as if they were living things. He had kindled her imagination, as well as her heart. She perceived a soul in Nature, of which she had been unconscious till he revealed it. Ah, how lonely she was now! In all the wide world there was not one mortal who could understand what that simple country girl had found, or what she had lost. She herself did not comprehend it. She only had an uneasy sense of always seeking for something she could never find. She lived among her former associates like one who has returned from an excursion into fairy-land, finding the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But employments are Amaranths in the garden of life. They live through all storms, and survive all changes of the seasons. Her duties were numerous and conscientiously performed; and through this pathway of necessity, apparently so rugged, she soon arrived at a state of cheerful serenity.

In a few months, her parents were induced to join a band of emigrants coming to America; and the novelty of change proved beneficial to her. That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten, but it smiled upon her farther in the distance. There was a joyful palpitation at her heart, when she found Eglantines growing wild in America, under the name of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened the verses which had seemed to her “si belle!” The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but memory was redolent of its fragrance. She was never told that Edward Vernon had written two letters to her, after he left England; and she had almost persuaded herself that his looks and tones were not so significant as they had seemed. She had no materials to form a definite hope; but it became the leading object of her life so to improve herself, that he would have no cause to be ashamed of her, if he ever should happen to come to America. In the accomplishment of this project, she was continually stimulated by the example of American girls, who obtained the means of education by their own manual industry, and ended by becoming teachers of the highest class. Her parents were delighted with her diligence and perseverance, and did what they could to aid her; never suspecting that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she worked onwards and upwards, with hands and mind, and soon found pleasure in the development itself.

Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she would give the preference to a merchant of good character, who was in very prosperous circumstances. She was aware that such a marriage would be a great advantage to them; and she loved them so much, that she wished her beauty could be the means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing. She was always thinking to herself, “He never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers, tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look so uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more like Mr. Vernon! I should like to oblige my good father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with humming to herself:

When the time came for a definite answer to the merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep school than marry. They looked at each other and sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the memory of her heart.

The prospect of owning a farm, combined with an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward attracted them to the far West. The grandeur and freedom of Nature in that new region, the mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination experienced a new birth in poetry, as the heart experiences religion. All that she had previously known of beauty seemed tame and cold compared with the wild charm of that improvised scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring, but it had no sympathy with the human soul, which longed for more responsive companionship, more intimate communion. The maiden needed a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated her own. In such moods, the looks and tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness. At times, she longed inexpressibly to know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences of the poor country girl, whom his influence had led into the regions she never dreamed of before. Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile, and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise, the abrupt termination of her long dream might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived English emigrant visited her father’s farm. He came from Mrs. Barton’s neighbourhood, and in the course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr. Vernon’s son and daughter were both married. Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her disappointment from the observation of others; and her mother had the good sense to forbear saying, “I told you so.” No conversation passed between them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moonlighted solitude of the prairie for a long time, and thought the expression of the scene never seemed so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a dream of early youth; and only a dream.”

She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago the next day, to attend to her school. In another department of the school, was a teacher from New England, a farmer’s son, who had worked with his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in the winter, till he had become a scholar of more than common attainments. He taught school during the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday, not because he was too indolent to perform manual labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God had formed him for it. He loved the occupation, and was therefore eminently successful in it. This young man had for some time been in love with Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement from her. But there is much truth in the old adage about the facility of catching a heart at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history, science, and ethics. But though he was unlike Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise; and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly, Sibella became aware that his society furnished pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married. Being desirous to purchase land and build a house, they continued to earn money by teaching. The desired home, with its various belongings, seemed likely to be soon completed, without great expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy. In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps no combination of circumstances more favourable to happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home, practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the necessity of doing it with one’s own hands. Those who have homes prepared for them by hired architects, gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot begin to imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one’s self. William was always planning bridges, arbours, and fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub, or vine, without marking it to be removed to the vicinity of their cabin. She told him all about her early love-dream, and said she should always cherish a grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved such a powerful agent to wake up the dormant energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now, dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all, that is no great change for an Eglantine.” He smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic as she was. He was poetic in his deeds. His young wife often found a bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her pillow, when she woke, or in her plate, when they seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made an arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on horseback to visit their future homestead. It was shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine bush was placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour with the sweet breath of its foliage. The first time Sibella saw it, she looked at him archly, and said, “So you are not jealous of that foolish dream, dear William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers on graves; and this shall be sacred to the memory of a dream. Ah, what a bright little cluster of Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what you call them in Old England,” said he; “but in New England we name them Ladies’ Delights, though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic Edward preferred the Eglantine; but this is an especial favourite with your practical William. I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at all seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers. If I were like you, I should say it was the efflorescence of Yankee character.” She clapped her hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You are growing poetic. I will name your little favourite the Yankee’s Flower; and that will be myself, you see; for I am the Yankee’s Flower.” She looked into his honest eyes affectionately, and added, “There is one Yankee character who is a Lady’s Delight.”

Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in childish pleasures, their united lives flowed smoothly on, like some full, bright, unobstructed stream. The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a pure lily on the stream. Their happiness was now complete. Their grateful souls asked for nothing but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas, sudden as the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep shadow fell on their sunny prospect. William was called away a few days on business. He left home full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered corpse. He had been killed by an accident, in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella known any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow. It saddened her to bid farewell to that first love-picture, which never emerged out of the mistiness of dream-land; but this sober certainty of wedded happiness was such a living true reality, that all her heart-strings bled, when it was wrenched from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul would have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow, had it not been for the blessed ministration of her babe, and the necessity of continuing to labour for its future support and education. The body of William was buried in a pretty little grove on her father’s farm; and every year the mound was completely covered with a fresh bed of Ladies’ Delights, which his little girl learned to call “Farder’s Fower.”

* * * * *

Time passed and brought healing on its wings. Sibella never expected to know happiness again, but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the good grandmother’s care. She continued to teach in the city, spending all her vacations, and most of her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and often watered with tears. That other island of Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening, as she returned from school, she found the little one watching for her, as usual. The indulgent grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom, for which she had been teazing. In her eagerness to bestow something on her mother, the child thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma’s Fower!” That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories. Not for years had the blooming lanes of old England been so distinctly pictured in the mirror of her soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon met her in the prairie and gave her a torch-flower he had gathered. The child’s exclamation had produced the train of thought of which the dream was born; and the dream induced her to look at the verses which had long remained unopened. Ten years had passed since they were written. The paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine blossom was yellow and wrinkled. Still the sight of it recalled the very look and tone with which it was offered. The halo of glory with which her youthful imagination had invested the rhymes was dimmer now; and yet they seemed to her “si belle!”

The afternoon of that day, she sat with her mother, busily employed trimming a bonnet for their little darling, who was equally busy under the window, sticking an apron-full of wild-flowers into the ground, to make an impromptu garden. A voice called out, “Sir, will you have the goodness to give me a little help? My carriage has broken down.” Sibella started suddenly, and the bonnet fell from her hand. “What is the matter with you?” said her mother. “It is merely some traveler in trouble. That bad place in the road yonder must be mended.” Sibella resumed her work, saying, “I am strangely nervous to-day.” But in the secret chambers of her own mind, there was a voice whispering, “My dream! My dream! Can it be, as some people say, that there is a magnetic influence on the soul when certain individuals approach, each other?” Presently, her father entered, leading a small boy, “Take care of this little fellow,” said he, “his father’s carriage has broken down, out by the hill.” The young widow rose, and greeted the little stranger with such motherly tenderness, that he looked up in her face confidingly, with a half-formed smile. But she gazed into his eyes so earnestly, that he turned away partly afraid. The little girl offered him her flowers, and they sat down on the floor to play together. It was not long, before the farmer entered with the traveler; a refined looking gentleman, apparently about thirty years old. The old lady rose to greet him; but Sibella stooped to gather up the ribbons, which had fallen from her trembling hands. Browned as he was by wind and sun, she recognized him instantly. In fact she had already recognized his eyes and smile in the face of his son. She wondered whether he would know her. Was she like an Eglantine now? Having resumed a sufficient degree of self-command, while picking up the ribbons, she rose, and advanced toward him, with a blush and a smile. He started—uttered an exclamation of surprise—then seized her hand and kissed it.

“Bless my soul! It’s Mr. Vernon! And I didn’t know him!” exclaimed Mrs. Flower. “Well this is strange, I do declare!”

When their mutual surprise had subsided, many questions about old England were asked and answered. But it was not until after supper that their guest spoke of his own plans. Pointing to his son, he said, “I am a lonely man, with only that one tie to bind me to the world. My father and mother are dead; and as it was for their sakes only that I consented to endure the fetters of over-civilized life, I formed the resolution of coming into these Western wilds, to live with nature in her freedom and simplicity. I was not altogether selfish in this movement, for I felt confident it was the best way to form a manly character for my son. No cousin Alfred will stand in his sunshine here. Come, Edward,” said he, “introduce your little friend to me.” The boy sprang forward joyfully, and climbed his father’s knee. “The little friend must sit on the other knee,” said he. “Go and bring her. You are not gallant to the little lady.” But the little lady was shy. She hid herself behind a chair, and would not be easily persuaded. At last, however, her mother coaxed her to be led up to the stranger gentleman, to see him open his gold watch. He placed her on his knee and asked her name; and, emboldened by his caresses, she looked up in his face, and answered, “Teena.” He glanced inquiringly toward her mother, who, blushing slightly, answered, “I named her Eglantina; but, in her lisping way, she calls herself Teena; and we have all adopted her fashion, except grandfather, who varies it a little by calling her Teeny.” A pleased expression went over Mr. Vernon’s face, as he replied, “You did well to name her for yourself; for she resembles you, as the bud of the Eglantine resembles the blossom.” As he spoke thus, the ten intervening years rolled away like a curtain, and they both found themselves walking again in the blooming lanes of old England.

* * * * *

Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a guest at Flower Farm, as it was called. He entered into negotiations for a tract of land in the neighbourhood, and found pleasant occupation in hunting, fishing, and planning his house and grounds. Sibella and the children often accompanied him in his excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and dotted with isolated groves, like islands, charmed him with its novelty of beauty. “I am perpetually astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness of nature in this region,” said he. He gathered one of the plants at his feet, and presenting it to Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was not appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What do you think of dreams?” she replied; then seeing that he was surprised by the abruptness of the question, she told him she had dreamed, the night before his arrival, that she met him on the prairie, and received a torch-flower from his hand. He smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for Hymen’s torch.” He looked at her smilingly as he spoke; for he was bolder now than when he wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount into her cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand, and said, “It blushes more deeply than my old favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her embarrassment, Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton and her neighbours; adding, “Among all these questions, I have not yet asked if your sister is living.”

“She is what the world calls living,” he replied. “She has married a wealthy old merchant, who dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his lady rewards him by treating him with more indifference than she does her footman. Her acquaintance envy her elegant furniture and costly jewels; and when they exclaim, ‘How fortunate you are! You are surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!’ she replies, with a languid motion of her fan, ‘Yes, every thing—except love.’ Julia never forgave me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate; but she was like you, Sibella, and that was what first interested me. If she had lived, I probably should never have seen America; but after her death, I was lonely and restless. I wanted change. I knew that you had been in this country several years; but I cannot say you were distinctly connected with my plans. You never answered my letters, and I supposed you had long since forgotten me. But I never saw an Eglantine without thinking of you; and while I was crossing the Atlantic, I sometimes found myself conjecturing whether I should ever happen to meet you, and whether I should find you married.” Long explanations and confessions followed. The authorship of the mysterious verses was acknowledged, and their preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly interesting to themselves, but would look somewhat foolish on paper. It has been well said, that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines of the south; delicious in their native soil, but rendered vapid by transportation.”

* * * * *

Mr. Vernon chose the site for his new dwelling with characteristic taste. It stood on an eminence, commanding a most lovely and extensive prospect. A flower-enamelled lawn, rich as embroidered velvet, and ornamented with graceful trees, descended from the front of the house to a bend in the river. It was all fresh from the hand of Nature. Nothing had been planted, and nothing removed, except a few trees to make room for a carriage-path. He had been advised to build an English villa; but he disliked the appearance of assuming a style of more grandeur than his neighbours; and Sibella thought a log-house, with its rough edges of bark, would harmonize better with the scenery. It was spacious and conveniently planned, and stood in the midst of a natural grove. Festoons of vines were trained all round it, clustering roses climbed up even to the roof, and the air was fragrant with Eglantines. The arbor, that William had made, was carefully removed thither, and placed in the garden, surrounded by a profusion of Ladies’ Delights, in memory of the lost friend.

It was a fixed principle with Mr. Vernon that no man had a right to live in the world without doing his share of its work. He imported seeds and scions, which he planted and grafted himself, always distributing a liberal portion among his neighbours. “My fruit and vegetables will soon command a ready sale in the city market,” said he; “but the proceeds shall go toward a school-fund, and the establishment of a Lyceum. I do not desire that our children should inherit great wealth. Life sufficiently abounds with dangers and temptations, physical and mental, without adding that glittering snare for their manhood and womanhood. The wisest and kindest thing we can do for them is to educate equally themselves and the people among whom they are to live.”

“There spoke the same generous soul that chose the poor country-girl for a wife!” she exclaimed, “What can I ever do to prove the gratitude I feel?”

Playfully he put his hand over her mouth, to stop that self-depreciation. They remained silent for a while, seated on the grassy slope, looking out upon the winding river and the noble trees. “How much this scene resembles the parks and lawns of old England,” said the happy bride. “If it were not for the deep stillness, and the absence of human habitations, I could almost imagine myself in my native land.”

“I like it better than English parks and lawns, for two reasons,” he replied. “I prefer it, because it is formed by Nature, and not by Art; and Nature gives even to her quietest pictures peculiar touches of wild inimitable grace. Still more does the scene please me, because these broad acres are not entailed upon noblemen, who cannot ride over their estates in a week, while their poor tenantry toil through life without being allowed to obtain possession of a rood of land.”

Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration, while she replied, “Truly, ‘the child is father of the man.’ There spoke the same soul that invited a tradesman’s manly son to spend the vacation with him, in preference to Lord Smallsoul.”

“I will never reprove my boy, if he brings home the manly son of a wood-sawyer to spend his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting! What sound is more musical than the happy voices of children? See the dear little rogues racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they seem to love each other! God be praised, they are free to enact the parts of Paul and Virginia in this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt them into fashionable life, and make shipwreck of their happiness.”