University of Virginia Library

1. WATER-DROPS.
BY
MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

THE TWINS.

In the environs of one of the large towns of New-England,
a pleasant dwelling attracted the eye of the traveller.
It was a kind of Gothic cottage, whose face of
brown stucco, and pointed windows, were adorned with
clustering vines. Its lawn of green turf was smoothly
shaven, while occasional borders, and circles of dark,
weedless mould, gave nutriment to a multitude of flowers.

The angles formed by the building were wrapped in
shrubbery; the damask-rose and syringas mingled their
fragrance, and the corcoris-japonica waved its globes of
gold. To the slight columns clung the climbing rose
and the graceful American ivy, while near the well in
the background, a dense willow, nourished by perpetual
moisture, ever drank, and drooped. The inclosure was
a deep hedge of lilacs, in whose rich spikes of flowers
the white and purple alternated. At the gate, a lofty
elm stood sentinel, towering upwards, whence its strength

came, and dispensing from its gnarled wide-spread arms,
protection and shade. Such was the rural haunt, amid
the luxuriance of favoring seasons, while here and there
an evergreen, skilfully disposed, provided with a wise
foresight for the nakedness of winter.

This abode of simple elegance was furnished with
reference both to comfort and taste. The interior was in
harmony with its outer robes. With no pretensions to
ostentation, it had yet one treasure that neither wealth
could purchase, nor soulless nature in its proudest glory
boast—twin-sister babes, alike, and exceedingly beautiful.
As they lay asleep in their double-headed cradle,
one polished brow seemed a reflection of the other. The
smile of waking innocence gave the same curve to their
ruby lips, and revealed the first pearly teeth, seemingly
formed in the same mould.

Placed in the verandah on some fine summer's day, in
their little cushioned car, the shrill song of surrounding
birds brought to their large, blue eyes, the same sweet
wonder; and two pair of tiny hands were clapped with
one impulse of delight, at the nurse who danced before
them.

Side by side, their round feet patted about the nursery,
and with their arms around each other, they learned to
balance their timid, yet eager steps, when permitted to
tread on the green turf, like newly-fledged birdlings, at
“their first flight from the cage.” Together they learned
to shape their infantine articulations, and thrilling was

the melody of the word “mamma,” to the fond heart that
responded to those sweetly blended tones.

No wonder that gentle mother regarded those exquisite
beings, with a tenderness bordering on idolatry. To
watch the hourly development of her twin rose-buds, the
color and cluster of each incipient curl, their features
quickening as the dawn of intellect advanced, the verisimilitude
in form and movement that deceived other
eyes, and almost bewildered her own, was an “over-payment
of delight.” Her extreme solicitude during the ills
incidental to infancy, was rendered more agonizing, from
the circumstance that they were the sole survivors of
several dear ones, who had entered this fair and changeful
existence, only to take a sudden farewell.

The father, whose manners had been roughened by a
life-long intercourse with the boisterous sea, where he
had passed every grade, from cabin-boy to the command
of a princely vessel, found his whole nature breathed
upon, and softened, by the influence of this double paternity.
As he glided over the rushing waves, he counted
the days and hours that must divide him from that home,
which was as the light-house to the storm-driven mariner,
the “star of hope on life's tremulous ocean.” Those
fairy forms hovered around him in their exceeding beauty,
as living pictures on the crested billow, and amid the
hoarsest roar of the tempest, their tones lingered in his
heart, like the murmur of the Zenaida dove.

His periods of return were signalized by lavish gifts to

them, and to their mother. With the liberality natural
to his profession, the most hard-earned gains were valued
but as the means of their happiness. He studied
the unspoken wishes of his wife, and knowing her delight
in the beauties of nature, strove to make her habitation
and surrounding grounds more and more of a paradise.
She often endeavored to temper his profusion by a wise
regard for the future; but he deemed this free expenditure
a legitimate expression of his love, and gloried in its
exercise.

As Rosa and Lilian sprang from infancy to childhood,
it was sweet to see them clasping with their delicate
hands his large brown fingers, and leading him with hurried
steps to their own little garden; or seated at close
of day, with their white arms entwining his neck, and
their pure, polished cheeks resting on his bronzed brow.

Childhood advanced, and two lovely creatures might
be seen, wending their way to school. Always together,
arm in arm, or hand linked to hand, always attired alike,
it would even seem that each golden curl, clustering
around their ivory necks, had been trained by careful nature
to observe the same rule of equity. Side by side,
they pursued the same studies. If there was difficulty in
the task, they assisted each other; if reward, they were
joint partakers. Thus, they grew together, in the words
of the bard of Avon.

They bent over one page, they wrought out the same
problem, their pencils tinted the same landscape, their
piano breathed in duets; they had no idea of a separate
employment, or a solitary joy. In all the pursuits of
knowledge, and toils of education, they put forth a double
strength, through this perfected sympathy.

When the pleasant season of school-day intercourse
was over, and they gracefully assumed those lighter
domestic cares, which were to relieve a mother in her
delicate health, they were still kindred-hearted, lighting
up the habitation with a double smile; their voices, like a
music-tone, always in unison. Whatever they performed
was with the whole, cheerful heart; and their surpassing
beauty was heightened by this happy development of
feminine character and duty.

Thus glided away nineteen cloudless years,—and then
the trouble came. Like the thunder-bolt, and the sweeping
rain, fell the stroke of orphanage. Shipwreck buried
the father in the deep, and the stricken wife, enfeebled
by previous disease, was nable to brave the sudden
shock of so fearful a sorrow. She lingered a few weeks,
and sank beneath the clods of the valley.

Alas, for Rosa and Lilian! Ever near the couch of
the sufferer, rendering every service that affection could
prompt, by night or day, while breath remained,—they
wished, in the first bitterness of grief, to be gathered into
her bosom, and sleep beside her, where the weary are at
rest. But as time slowly unveiled his healing influences,

the power of entire sympathy to soothe sorrow, became
also apparent. Communion in grief dispelled the rankling
anguish, and softened it into that tender melancholy
which is the nurse of holy thought.

The seasons, weighed down by affliction, moved heavily.
Yet gradually the bereaved ones resumed an interest in
their daily duties, and in the soothing intercourse of
friendship and benevolence. Hitherto, their existence
had known no undivided thought, or reserved sentiment.
The period had come, when this peculiar and entire
union was to be modified. Love ventured on the experiment.
With his usual arrogance he entered the sanctuary,
with his train of dreams and fancies, and hung up
his own effigy in its most sacred shrine.

A youth, of an impulsive and wild character, drew
nearer and nearer to his own heart, one of those recluse
and contemplative beings. It would seem that opposites
had so combined, as to form an attachment of rare fervor
and effervescence.

The forsaken sister learned by degrees the hard lesson,
that another was preferred to herself. She could not but
perceive that her presence was an interruption to the
lovers, and that the bosom so long exclusively her own,
had admitted a guest which could tolerate no rival. She
arraigned her own selfishness, and condemned it. She
desired to rejoice in her sister's new happiness—if happiness
it was. Yet to her it seemed rather as a passionate

excitement, awakened by an uncongenial,—possibly an
unworthy object, and she wept her first, lonely tears.

One evening, she sate long in the recess of her window,
to which the white rose had climbed, looking in, with her
countless family of young buds, like a curious and familiar
friend. The rich moonlight lay like a curtain upon dale
and hillock, touching the masses of foliage with enchantment,
and making every leaf that quivered in loneliness,
transparent.

From a lower apartment came the voices of the lovers,
sometimes interrupted, sometimes in recitative; one rapid
and exulting, the other tender as the murmur of the
stock-dove.

It was late ere Rosa entered the chamber. Then, she
folded her waiting sister in a close embrace.

“Oh Lilian, Lilian, forgive me. It is not now with us
as in times past, and the fault is mine. When Arthur's
footstep is heard, I forget all beside. When he speaks,
I hear no other sound. When he is gone, his words keep
possession, and his image lingers, shutting out all surrounding
things. At morn I awake, and his name is first
in my prayer, then yours, then my own. Methinks my
soul hath escaped, and his hath taken its place.”

She paused, in the rush of emotion, and bowed her
flushed cheek to that of her sister, and held her breath
to listen, but there was no reply.

“Lilian, sometimes, since this has come upon me, you
have spoken and I have not answered, or I fear me, have

answered amiss. Your voice put to flight trains of
thought, that were like ladders of roses, where angels
descended. Is it my weakness, Lilian? or a new strength
which has been revealed in me? I feel that it can never
be again with us, as in the days that were, when only
your arm was around me, on the cradle-pillow, and at
our mother's grave. Sometimes I feel a pang, as if I
had forsaken you. And yet, I repent not. Ah! how can
I make reparation to you,—so long my other self?”

Lilian raised her face from the fair neck of her sister,
where she had hidden it, their tresses of pale gold intermingling
like tendrils from the same vine. It was pale,
but of a saintly mildness, for the struggle was past.

“So it must be,—so it ought to be. If you are to
walk with Arthur, the path of this checkered life, it is
fitting that he be henceforth your more than sister, and
your next to God. If I have ever repined, when you
seemed first to put me from you, that is past. Selfish
and sinful should I indeed be, if your happiness were
not my own. But are you assured that this new path
leadeth to happiness? that this guide unto death, is
wisely chosen?”

“Lilian!” and there was a solemnity in her tone, deepening
almost to sternness, “Lilian, such a doubt you have
before spoken. Let it be uttered no more. For henceforth,
where he goeth, will I go; and where he dieth, will
I be buried; his people shall be my people, and his God
my God,—yea! if he have no God, I will have none also.”

The listening sister shuddered, but spoke not. She
knelt long in her accustomed orison, and laid herself
down by Rosa's side, but that night she slept not.

It was deemed expedient by the friends of Arthur,
that he should pass a year at the south, in the prosecution
of some important business, ere the completion of
his marriage. The parting of the lovers was trying, and
tumultuous with emotion. Perpetual and diffuse epistles
seemed their only relief.

“Oh Lilian! dearest, here is the most perfect letter
from the adored. Listen, while I read a few passages.
And yet I can more rapidly tell you its purport. We
must go to him.”

“Go to him!”

“Yes, Lilian, yes. He is so miserable. He cannot
survive longer alone. He is pining away at heart.”

“He has been absent nearly half his probation. Think,
in a few months he will return. It is improper, and
impossible for us to go to him.”

“Call nothing impossible, that Love wills. His business
will probably detain him another year. Let me
write, and give him permission to come on for us. Let
me say that we will accompany him back, and make his
wilderness an Eden.”

“Rosa, my sister, write him to be patient. You surely
cannot be serious?”

“Lilian, you must not so love this abode, and the flowers
that you are forever training. Arthur will find us a home

equally beautiful at the sunny south. I take no pleasure
in the things that I once thought so beautiful, for how
can I be happy, while he is an exile and desolate.”

It was touching to see the twin-hearts, which but one
passion had ever separated, still soothing each other, and
striving to harmonize their widely diverging sentiments.
Like a stream suddenly parted, one was rushing on, under
the sparkling sunbeam, it knew not whither; the other
turning, in sadness, back to the shaded fountain where
they were as one. But in all their communion, it became
more evident that one, through the infusion of an earthly
love, was becoming troubled and wayward; while the
other sought to be a humble student of that which is
divine.

A letter, with a black seal. It was in the hand of the
venerable Pastor who had laid their mother in the grave,
and regarded with christian tenderness her orphan dear
ones. His step was slow, and his voice hesitating, as he
inquired for Lilian.

“Yes, and for Rosa too,” said a merry voice, as a fair,
young creature bounded in beside him. So hasty, beautiful
being, to drink the dregs of bitterness! They might,
perchance, have been softened for thee, by oozing through
the crucible of thy kindred heart.

Ha! raise her there, from the deadly swoon. Bend
over her, sister-spirit. Lift up thy soul in prayer, thou
pitying man of God.

See, the water revives her. But with piercing shrieks,
and hands clasped in spasms, she faints again. Oh misery!
Days and nights pass. And the only sound from
those pale lips, that darkened chamber, is the frantic cry,
“He is dead,—dead.”

Yes. He had fallen in a duel, spurred on by sudden
wrath, and the wine-frenzy. Months fled, and at length
the physical strength of the bereaved one triumphed.
She came forth once more, but how changed. The
wrinkle of despair was on her brow. She had suffered,
but not submitted. He, who had taken away the idol,
was to her, as a foe.

On the sympathizing sister it would seem that the
burden of years had been suddenly laid. Every trace
of color had faded from cheek and lip. Harrowing
anxiety had absorbed every feeling of her nature, except
that which communed in devotion with her Father above.
A childlike spirit spoke from the pale brow, which was
continually turned in watchful tenderness to one, that,
clouded and darkened, evinced little reciprocity, and no
resignation.

“Rosa, dearest, hear the birds, how they pour out the
very soul of melody. Or shall I sing for you, one of
those simple airs that we used to play together?”

“There was, for me, but one voice of music. It is
silenced, and I am deaf to melody.”

“Oh, look to God. He hath comfort for the sorrow-stricken.”

“Was it not He who smote down my heart's only
prop? And say you, He hath comfort to offer? He
hath taken away the lone star by which I steered. The
taper that I held ever in my hand, is dashed into darkness.
Are the glories of his own Heaven the brighter?”

Poor Lilian shrank away at her words. Madness, and
the spirit of defiance seemed to have been the fruit of her
chastisement. More widely than ever apart, flowed the
stream of life of the two lone sisters, who at first, like
kindred drops, were mingled into one.

“Our good Pastor has waited long for you, this morning,
dear Rosa. He has been often here to inquire for
you since you have been able to leave your room. Will
you not see him now?”

“Excuse me to him. I am not in spirits for conversation.”

“He will surely expect an interview. His interest in
the departed, as well as in us, require this attention.”

Crimson flashed over the face of Rosa, dyeing her forehead,
even to the roots of the golden hair.

“Interest in the departed! If by this, you mean in
Arthur, I know that he rebuked him, and that he never
forgave him. Neither will I.”

“His warning was in kindness. He feared”—

“Nay, he numbered him with riotous drinkers of wine.
And what if he was? Whoever lifted against him, the

voice of blame, I hate. Rather would I be a partaker of
his fault, who was as my own soul, than in their pride
of sanctity, who frowned upon him.”

Her tones, and gestures, her excited and unfeminine
manner, shocked the meek-hearted sister. But alas! they
announced no discovery. Her participation in the frailty
of her fallen lover, was already written on her brow.

Years slowly departed, and many comforts vanished
from the habitation of the sisters. Their table was less
bountiful. The waiter was dismissed, and the gardener
who had so long tended those beautiful grounds, once
the parents' pride.

In their place, wrought a gentle being, somewhat
bowed by time, but more by sorrow. In the illnesses of
Rosa, she was also the nurse. And the post was no
sinecure. Her forbearance, her watchfulness, the self-denying
spirit which says “thy will be done,” were but
in too frequent requisition. Lightly as a dream she glided
about, though in her heart was a rankling arrow. She
fain would have hidden her wound, and its anguish. She
flattered herself that it was a secret. Alas!

“Mistress Lilian,” said the old servant, the only one
whom they retained, “you are so pale, and eat so little.
But to be sure, there is not much to tempt your appetite,

nowadays. I'm often thinking of the good old times,
when my master came home from sea, and the chinaoranges
were as plenty as blackberries, and the pineapples,
and the tamarinds, and the chickens. Mercy on
me, I think I could dress such a dinner as you would eat,
if I had but the things. Sad changes I 've seen in my
day, Mistress Lilian.”

“We must expect changes, you know, if we live long
in a changing world.”

“And why do ye wear that poor, threadbare gown
and hood, that look as if they came out of the ark. What
would the lady, my old mistress, have said, could she
have lived to see this day,—she who would always have
you dressed in the best, from your cradle?”

“I have little need to dress now, I go out so seldom.
Besides, I have told you that we are not able to afford
what we once could.”

“Oh! but ye 're always able to save something for the
poor. And wherefore is it that you cannot afford yourself
the comforts you 've been used to, so feeble as you be,
and needing them so much. Ah, wherefore, Miss Lilian?
And wherefore is it that so much strong drink goes to
yonder chamber? I would there were fewer full decanters
and more food.”

And the faithful creature wept as if her heart would
break.

“It is not for myself that I care, Miss Lilian, it is not
for myself. But when I hear the continual call for what

does harm, and you working and waiting from morning till
night, so loving and so patient, like a very angel, never
giving a cross look to them that's destroying you, and
trying all the time to hide the sword in your vitals, I cry,
when I ought to sleep.”

Midnight, in the chamber of the twin-sisters. And a
fearful, invisible form was there also, whose shaft is never
launched in vain. There were wild gaspings for breath,
groans and snatches of lethargic slumber.

Then a voice of piercing entreaty, thrilling and tender
as a quivering harp-string.

“Oh! look to Him, who forgiveth all sin. Turn to the
Lamb of God. Rosa! Rosa! pray!”

And from the old gray-haired servant, burst forth a
cry, “Pray! pray!”

A slow opening of the glassy eyes. They seemed to
regard nothing distinctly. Then the heavy lids closed,
to be lifted no more.

“Sister! say, with me, Jesus! Saviour! have mercy
on me.”

There was no reply.

“Press my hand, beloved! if you think of the blessed
Redeemer.”

No movement.

The lips of the living were joined to those that were
to speak no more. Long was that last kiss, but unreturned.
There was a horror of deep anguish, when those
twin-souls parted.

The lonely-hearted knelt beside the couch of the loved
and lost. She laid her face on the marble bosom. Sobs
were heard, and a low voice of supplication. Then all
was still.

Morning dawned, and they would fain raise the mourner
who knelt there so long. They would fain have raised
her,—but their hands clasped a form of marble. The
chastened and peaceful spirit had gone home. And the
bitter weeping of the old, white-haired servant, alone
broke the silence of the death-chamber.