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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875[X]
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1Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Add
 Title:  Juno Clifford  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street— the city was teeming with life and turbulent with noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained windows of that lofty house on Mount Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual calmness. And yet there was something in the curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand, which told of a slumbering power; an energy, resistless in its intensity; a will that might have subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual —the energy, native. “Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write, but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day, that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries. In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now. The dear, blue river glides along so gently between its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier. His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has grown old among the crash of contending armies, and the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered, and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings, young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front, hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all the world could look upon them as I do, that they could teach every one the same lesson. “I will call you so this once more. God help us, for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes, every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me than my own life. I would not look upon your face for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting. She has whispered that a time might come, when I would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope. I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other love the happiness I can never again taste. May he who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your love; he cannot return it more truly. “There, forgive those words, I could not help them. When once more, after all this lapse of years, I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot come to you to-night. I have received a message that Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying, but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace. Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will not let me be, as in other days—
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