University of Virginia Library

The Pacquet of Bella.

I HAVE not forgotten that pacquet of Bella; I did
not once forget it. And when I saw Lilly—now the
grown up Lilly, happy in her household, and blithe
as when she was a maiden, she gave it to me. She told
me too of Bella's illness, and of her suffering, and of
her manner, when she put the little pacquet in her
hand `for Cousin Paul.' But this I will not repeat;
—I cannot.

I know not why it was, but I shuddered at the
mention of her name. There are some who will talk,
at table, and in their gossip, of dead friends; I wonder
how they do it? For myself, when the grave has
closed its gates on the faces of those I love—however
busy my mournful thought may be, the tongue is

silent. I cannot name their names; it shocks me to
hear them named. It seems like tearing open half-healed
wounds, and disturbing with harsh worldly
noise, the sweet sleep of death.

I loved Bella. I know not how I loved her,—
whether as a lover, or as a husband loves a wife; I
only know this,—I always loved her. She was so
gentle—so beautiful,—so confiding, that I never once
thought, but that the whole world loved her, as well
as I. There was only one thing I never told to
Bella;—I would tell her of all my grief, and of all
my joys; I would tell her my hopes, my ambitious
dreams, my disappointments, my anger, and my dislikes;—but
I never told her how much I loved her.

I do not know why, unless I knew that it was needless.
But I should as soon have thought of telling
Bella on some winter's day—Bella, it is winter!—or
of whispering to her on some balmy day of August—
Bella, it is summer!—as of telling her, after she had
grown to girlhood.—Bella, I love you!

I had received one letter from her in the old countries;
it was a sweet letter, in which she told me all
that she had been doing, and how she had thought of
me, when she rambled over the woods where we had
rambled together. She had written two or three
other letters, Lilly told me, but they had never
reached me. I had told her too of all that made my

happiness; I wrote her about the sweet girl I had
seen on shipboard, and how I met her afterward, and
what a happy time we passed down in Devon. I
even told her of the strange dream I had, in which
Isabel seemed to be in England, and to turn away from
me sadly, because I called her—Carry.

I also told her of all I saw in that great world of
Paris—writing, as I would write to a sister; and I
told her too of the sweet Roman girl, Enrica—of her
brown hair, and of her rich eyes, and of her pretty
Carnival dresses. And when I missed letter after
letter, I told her that she must still write her
letters, or some little journal, and read it to me when
I came back. I thought how pleasant it would be to
sit under the trees by her father's house, and listen
to her tender voice going through that record of her
thoughts, and fears. Alas, how our hopes betray
us!

It began almost like a diary, about the time that
her father fell sick. “It is”—said she to Lilly, when
she gave it to her, “what I would have said to Cousin
Paul, if he had been here.”

It begins“—I have come back now to father's
house; I could not leave him alone, for they told me
he was sick. I found him not well; he was very
glad to see me, and kissed me so tenderly that I am sure,

Cousin Paul, you would not have said, as you used to
say—that he was a cold man! I sometimes read to
him, sitting in the deep library window, (you remember
it,) where we used to nestle out of his sight, at
dusk. He cannot read any more.

“I would give anything to see the little Carry you
speak of; but do you know you did not describe her
to me at all; will you not tell me if she has dark
hair, or light, or if her eyes are blue, or dark, like
mine? Is she good; did she not make ugly speeches,
or grow peevish, in those long days upon the ocean?
How I would have liked to have been with you, on
those clear starlit nights, looking off upon the water!
But then I think that you would not have wished me
there; and that you did not once think of me even.
This makes me sad; yet I know not why it should;
for I always liked you best, when you were happy;
and I am sure you must have been happy then. You
say you shall never see her after you have left the
ship:—you must not think so, Cousin Paul; if she is
so beautiful, and fond, as you tell me, your own heart
will lead you in her way, some time again; I feel
almost sure of it.

* * * “Father is getting more and more
feeble, and wandering in his mind; this is very dreadful;
he calls me sometimes by my mother's name; and

when I say—it is Isabel,—he says—what Isabel!
and treats me as if I was a stranger. The physician
shakes his head when I ask him of father: oh, Paul,
if he should die—what could I do? I should die too—
I know I should. Who would there be to care for me?
Lilly is married, and Ben is far off, and you Paul, whom
I love better than either, are a long way from me.
But God is good, and he will spare my father.

* * * “So you have seen again your little
Carry! I told you it would be so. You tell me
how accidental it was:—ah, Paul, Paul, you rogue,
honest as you are I half doubt you there! I like
your description of her too:—dark eyes like mine you
say—`almost as pretty;' well, Paul, I will forgive you
that; it is only a white lie. You know they must be
a great deal prettier than mine, or you would never
have stayed a whole fortnight in an old farmer's
house, far down in Devon! I wish I could see her:
I wish she was here with you now; for it is mid-summer,
and the trees and flowers were never prettier.
But I am all alone; father is too ill to go out at all.
I fear now very much, that he will never go out
again. Lilly was here yesterday, but he did not
know her. She read me your last letter: it was not
so long as mine. You are very—very good to me,
Paul.

* * * “For a long time I have written
nothing: my father has been very ill, and the old
housekeeper has been sick too, and father would have
no one but me near him. He cannot live long. I
feel sadly—miserably; you will not know me when
you come home; your “pretty Bella”—as you used
to call me, will have lost all her beauty. But perhaps
you will not care for that, for you tell me you have
found one prettier than ever. I do not know, Cousin
Paul, but it is because I am so sad, and selfish—for
sorrow is selfish—but I do not like your raptures
about the Roman girl. Be careful, Paul: I know
your heart: it is quick and sensitive; and I dare say
she is pretty, and has beautiful eyes; for they tell me
all the Italian girls have soft eyes.

“But Italy is far away, Paul; I can never see
Enrica; she will never come here. No—no, remember
Devon: I feel as if Carry was a sister now: I
cannot feel so of the Roman girl: I do not want to
feel so. You will say this is harsh; and I am afraid
you will not like me so well for it; but I cannot help
saying it. I love you too well, Cousin Paul, not to
say it.

* * * “It is all over! Indeed, Paul, I
am very desolate! `The golden bowl is broken'—
my poor father has gone to his last home. I was

expecting it; but how can we expect that fearful
comer—death? He had been for a long time so
feeble, that he could scarce speak at all: he sat for
hours in his chair, looking upon the fire, or looking
out at the window. He would hardly notice me when
I came to change his pillows, or to smooth them for
his head. But before he died, he knew me as well as
ever. `Isabel,' he said, `you have been a good
daughter: God will reward you!' and he kissed me
so tenderly, and looked after me so anxiously, with
such intelligence in his look, that I thought perhaps
he would revive again. In the evening he asked me
for one of his books, that he loved very much.
`Father,' said I, `you cannot read; it is almost
dark.'

“ `Oh, yes,' said he; `Isabel, I can read now.'
And I brought it; he kept my hand a long while;
then he opened the book;—it was a book about
death.

“I brought a candle, for I knew he could not read
without.

“ `Isabel, dear,' said he, `put the candle a little
nearer.' But it was close beside him even then.

“ `A little nearer, Isabel,'—repeated he, and his
voice was very faint; and he grasped my hand hard.

“ `—Nearer, Isabel!—nearer!'

“There was no need to do it, for my poor father was

dead! Oh! Paul, Paul!—pity me. I do not know
but I am crazed. It does not seem the same world
it was. And the house, and the trees, oh, they are
very dismal!

“I wish you would come home, Cousin Paul: life
would not be so very—very blank as it is now.
Lilly is kind;—I thank her from my heart. But it
is not her father who is dead!

“I am calmer now; I am staying
with Lilly. The world seems smaller than it did;
but Heaven seems a great deal larger: there is a
place for us all there, Paul,—if we only seek it!
They tell me you are coming home: I am glad.
You will not like perhaps to come away from that
pretty Enrica, you speak of; but do so, Paul. It
seems to me that I see clearer than I did, and I talk
bolder. The girlish Isabel you will not find, for I
am much older, and my air is more grave; and this
suffering has made me feeble—very feeble.

“It is not easy for me to write; but
I must tell you that I have just found out who your
Carry is. Years ago, when you were away from home,
I was at school with her. We were always together.
I wonder I could not have found her out from your
description; but I did not even suspect it She is a

dear girl, and is worthy of all your love. I have seen
her once since you have met her: we talked of you.
She spoke kindly—very kindly: more than this, I
cannot tell you, for I do not know more. Ah, Paul,
may you be happy: I feel as if I had but a little while
to live.

“It is even so, my dear Cousin
Paul,—I shall write but little more; my hand trembles
now. But I am ready. It is a glorious world
beyond this—I know it is! And there we shall
meet. I did hope to see you once again, and to hear
your voice, speaking to me as you used to speak.
But I shall not. Life is too frail with me. I seem
to live wholly now in the world where I am going:—
there is my mother, and my father, and my little
brother—we shall meet—I know we shall meet!

“The last—Paul. Never again in
this world! I am happy—very happy. You will
come to me. I can write no more. May good angels
guard you, and bring you to Heaven!”

—Shall I go on?

But the toils of life are upon me. Private griefs
do not break the force, and the weight of the great—
Present A life—at best the half of it, is before me.

It is to be wrought out with nerve and work. And—
blessed be God!—there are gleams of sunlight upon
it. That sweet Carry, doubly dear to me now,
that she is joined with my sorrow for the lost Isabel,
—shall be sought for!

And with her sweet image floating before me, the
Noon wanes, and the shadows of Evening lengthen
upon the land.