XIX.—THE SISTERS.
It was a flower garden, watered by a spring that bubbled up from yellow
sands.
It was a flower garden, environed by a wall of dark grey stone, overshadowed
with vines and roses.
It was a flower garden, standing in the centre of a wood, whose leaves
blushed like the rainbow, with the dyes of autumn.
Yonder rises the mansion, something between a stately dwelling and a
quiet cottage in appearance, you see its steep roof, its grotesque chimneys,
the porch before the door, supported by oaken pillows wreathed with
vines.
A dear retreat, this place of fragrant beds, and winding walks, of orchard
trees heavy with fruit, and flowers blooming into decay, trembling with
perfume ere they die.
It was that calm hour, when clouds hasten to the west, and range themselves
in the path of the setting sun, as though anxious to receive the kiss
of their Lord, ere he sank to rest. It was that beautiful moment, when the
tree tops look like pyramids of gold, and sky resembles a dome of living
flame, with a blush of glory pervading its cope, from the zenith to the horizon.
It was the close of one of those delicious days in autumn, when we
love to bury ourselves in the recesses of brown woods, and think of the
friends that are gone, when it is our calm delight to wander through long
vistas of overarching trees, treading softly over the sward, and give our souls
to memories of love, or dwell sadly and yet tenderly upon the grave which
awaits us, when the play of life is over.
In the centre of the garden there grow four apple trees, their gnarled
limbs twining together, while their fruit of various colors glowed in the rosy
light. Beneath the shade and fruitage of these trees, a rugged bench, formed
with plain branches of oak twisted in various fantastic forms, was placed,
presenting a delightful retreat amid the recesses of that rustic garden.
Just as you may have seen, two flowers, alike beautiful, yet contrasted
in their style of loveliness, swaying side by side in the summer breeze,
their varied tints affording a picture of never-ending freshness, so two beautiful
girls bloomed side by side, in that quiet recess.
Their faces are turned toward the evening light, as they feel the deep
serenity of that hour. One, a delicate, fragile thing, with skin almost supernaturally
fair, eyes blue as an Italian sky, hair like threaded gold, lays
her hand upon her sister's shoulder, and nestles gently to her side.
Young Alice! A tender flower, that has just ripened from the bud, with
the dew yet fresh upon its petals.
The other, a warm figure, ripened into perfect womanhood, her breast
rounded, her small feet and hands in strong contrast with the blooming fullness
of her shape. Her brown hair, that falls back from her white neck in
glossy masses,—here, dark as a raven's wing, there, waving in bright chesnut
hues—affords a fresh beauty to her boldly chisseled face, whose lips
are red with mature ripeness. Her deep grey eyes, the clearly defined
brows and impressive forehead, combine in an expression of intellectual beauty.
Womanly Mary! A moss rose, blooming its last hour of freshness, its
leaves crimsoning with all the beauty they can ever know.
On her full bosom the head of the younger Sister was laid, among her
brown tresses, the flaxen locks of her sister wandered, like sunshine rays
among twilight shadows.
“It is so sweet, at this still hour, Mary, to think of him! To remember
how he looked, and what he said, when last we saw him—to count the
days, yes, the moments that must elapse before he will return to us!”
Thus spoke the young sister, her eye gleaming in moisture, but the elder
felt her face flush, and her eye brighten, as these words came impetuously
from her lips:
“But sweeter far, Alice, to think how proud, how noble he will look,
when he stands before us, so like a hero, with the star upon his breast, the
warrior's robe upon his form! To think of him, not coming back to us as
he departed, an humble Cadet, but a titled General, welcomed by the favor
of his king, the applause of his countrymen!—His last letters speak of his
certain ascent to fame. Even now, he is engaged upon a deed—whose
nature he does not reveal—that will cause his name to burst in glory on his
country's fame!”
Sisterly love—pure and child-like—spoke in the words of the first.
Sisterly love, tender yet impetuous with ambition, rung in the strong tones
of the other.
“And Mother, O, how glad she will be! We shall all feel so happy,
and —” The younger Sister started, for she heard a step. With one assent,
they turned their eyes and beheld a widowed woman, with her silver
hair laid back from a mild and beaming face, come slowly along the garden
walk.
It was their Mother. They rose and greeted her, and in their different
ways, told their young hopes and fears.
She sat between them on the garden bench, each small hand on which
were marked the lines of time, laid upon a daughter's head.
“How strange it is, that we have had no letters for a month! Not a
word from your brother, my children! Perhaps, since we have retired to
this quiet cottage, near a secluded country town, the letters miss us. Come,
girls—it is a pleasant evening, let us walk in the woods!”
Taking their soft hands within her own, the Mother beside her daughters,
looked like a beautiful flower, whose young freshness has been but faintly
preserved in the leaves of Time's volume, contrasted with the young loveliness
of ungathered blossoms.
She led the way toward the garden gate. Along this narrow path, where
the thicket stored with berries, blooms in evergreen freshness, into the dim
woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and
shadows.
They strolled along, the younger sister now stooping to pluck a wild
flower as gay as herself, the other talking earnestly to her mother of the
absent Soldier.
“Don't you remember, Mother, how a month ago, when we were working
together, at our embroidery, I thought I heard my brother's step, and
went to the door to greet him? I am sure I heard his step, and yet it was
all a fancy!”
As the Sister Alice spoke, in a tone full of laughing gaiety, Mary changed
color and leaned upon her mother's shoulder, her breast throbbing violently
againt her dark habit.
The Mother looked upon her with unfeigned alarm:
“You are ill, Mary, and yet the evening air is by no means unpleasant,”
she said.
“It was the Second of October!” she whispered, as though thinking
aloud.
“How can you remember dates?” said Alice, laughing: “I'm sure I
can remember anything but dates. You know, Mary, when I read my
history at school, I always jumbled Henry the Eighth and Julius Cæsar
together!”
“It happened to fix itself upon my memory,” replied Mary, raising her
face and walking statelily onward again. “That sudden faintness is past: I
am quite well now,” she said, passing her hand lightly over her brow.
“O, I remember—” said the Mother, in a careless tone. “On that day,
even as Alice hurried to the door, expecting to greet her brother's form, you
swooned away. You remember it, on account of your swoon? Now that
I call the circumstance to mind, I recollect, the old clock struck twelve, as
you fainted.”
“Twelve o'clock—the Second of October!” faltered the pale Mary, as
the remembrance of the strange hallucination which possessed her, on that
day and hour, freezing her blood and darkening her reason, came to her
soul with redoubled force.
The Vision that she saw, sitting in that quiet chamber, she dared never
tell, it was so strange, so like a nightmare, pressing its beak into her virgin
breast, and drinking slowly the life-blood from her heart.
They wandered on, Alice tripping gaily over the sod, the Mother conversing
cheerfully, even Mary felt her heart bound, in the deep serenity of
that evening hour.
There was a nook in that wild wood, where the bank shelved down and
the trees stood apart, forming a circle around an ancient pile of stones, over
whose moss-covered forms bubbled a fountain of clear cold water. Above
the fountain arose a form of wood, overgrown with vines, and leaning forward.
It was a Cross, planted three hundred years before, when these
lands belonged to a Monastery, and the Old Religion dwelt on the soil.
The Mother and her Daughters approached, and started back with wonder.
A rude form, clad in tattered garments, crouched on the sod beside the
fountain. His war-worn face was laid against the bank, while his unshaven
beard, white as snow, gleamed in the light. His coat, which had once been
bright scarlet, betrayed the old soldier. There was dust upon his gaiters,
and his much worn shoes could scarce conceal his galled feet.
As he slept he grasped his staff, and thrust one hand within the breast
of his coat. His slumber was disturbed; he seemed laboring under the
fears and hopes of some tumultuous dream. Suddenly, starting to his feet,
with a horrible cry, he gazed wildly round, and trembled, while the clammy
moisture stood in beads upon his brow.
`Who are you? Back! You shall not kill me!” he cried, and put
himself in an attitude of defence.
“It is the old Soldier, who went with my Son to the wars!” cried the
Mother—“Abel, don't you know us?”
The effect of his dream passed away, and the aged Soldier advanced, his
hard hand pressed by the warm fingers of the young girls. As he stood
before them, his eyes seemed to avoid their gaze—now downcast—now
wandering on either side—his sunburnt face was flushed with a warm
glow.
“Speak! Our Brother!” faltered the girls.
“My Son! You bear a message from him?” exclaimed the Mother.
The old Soldier was silent.
“Your Son? You mean my Master—eh? The Major—” he hesitated.
“Why have you returned home? Is the war over?” exclaimed Mary.
“Ah—Brother is on his way home—he will be here presently—what a
delightful surprise!” cried Alice.
Still the Soldier stood silent and confused, his hands pressed together,
while his downcast eyes wandered over the sod.
“My goodness, ladies—” he muttered—“Have n't you received a letter?
Sir Henry wrote to you, Ma'am, and —”
“Sir Henry write to me?” echoed the Mother, her face growing deathly
pale—“Why did not my son write himself?”
And the sisters, laid each of them, a hand on the veteran's arm and looked
up eagerly into his rough visage.
His nether lip quivered; his eyes rolled strangely in their sockets. He
endeavored to speak but there was a choking sensation in his throat; all
the blood in his frame seemed rushing to his eyes.
“I can't tell it! God help me and forgiv' my sins, I aint strong enough
to tell it! Ladies, can't you guess—you see—the Major—”
Through the gathering gloom of twilight, the Mother looked and beheld
his emotion, and felt her soul palzied by a terrible fear. You may see
Alice, stand there, gazing on the soldier with surprise; Mary, that stately
sister, is by her side, her face white as a shroud.
They stood like figures of stone placed in the midst of the wood, with
the moss beneath, and the autumnal leaves above. The sound of the fountain
gurgling over the grey rocks alone disturbed the silence of the air.
The bluff old veteran stumbled forward, and fell on his knees.
“Look ye,—I'm rough—I aint afraid of man or devil, but I'm afraid
now! Don't force me to speak it —”
Adown that sunburnt face, slowly trickled two large and scalding tears.
You see the Mother, her face manifesting sudden traces of that agony,
which now comes with overwhelming force, and takes her soul by storm,
you see her advance and take the veteran by the hand.
“Rise, friend Abel!” she said, in a voice of unnatural calmness. “I
know your message. My son is dead.”
The Soldier bowed his head and gave free vent to his tears.
Alice hears that word, and shrinks toward yonder tree, her eyes covered
in a strange mist, her heart suddenly palsied in its beatings. The Mother
stands as calm, as pale as a corse.
Mary alone advances, gasps these words as with the last effort of her
life—
“He died in battle—at the head of his men—Speak! A soldier's
death —”
Transformed in every nerve, she quivered before him, her fingers clutching
his iron arms, her eyes flashing a death-like glare into his face. Her
falling hair sweeping back from her face, completed that picture of a sinless
maiden, trembling on the verge of madness.
The old Soldier looked up and answered her:
“He died on the Second of October, at the hour of twelve—on the Gibbet
—as a spy.”
These words, in a hollow yet deliberate voice, he slowly uttered, and the
Mother and the Sisters heard it all! Heard it, and could not, at the moment,
die!
God pity them, in this their fearful hour.
The Mother sank on her knees. Alice, the fair-haired and gentle, tottered
and fell, as though her life had passed with that long and quivering shriek.
The rough soldier wept aloud.
Mary, alone, stood erect: her pale countenance thrown into strong relief
by her dark flowing hair, her eyes glassy, her lips livid, her form towering
in marble-like majesty.
And as she stood—as though suddenly frozen into marble—her eyes
were fixed upon the heavens, visible through the intervals of the forest trees.
The last flush of sunset had died, and the first star came twinkling out
on the blue walls of space.
Only one expression passed her lips. Stifling the horrible agony of that
moment, she fixed her eyes upon that light in heaven, and said—
“It is my brother's star!”
