96. XCVI.
A DREAM OF AUTUMN.
Again at The Oaks! How many stirring scenes had I witnessed,
what vivid emotions had been mine, since first I ascended
the steps of this old portico in April, 1861!
Then I was a gay and ardent youth, on fire with the coming
conflict, and revelling in dreams of glory and romance. Now I
was a weary, dusty soldier, with clanking sabre, dingy uniform,
and a settled conviction that the thing called war was a hard
and disagreeable affair—not at all a splendid series of adventures.
I had seen much, felt more, reflected most of all—and here I
was within ten feet of her smile, the sheen of her hair, the
haunting splendor of her eyes! Oh, glory, fame, the long result
of war!—what are all these when a girl looks at you, laughing
with her eyes, and, blushing, murmurs:
“You have come at last!”
An hour after my arrival at The Oaks, I had answered all
Colonel Beverley's questions—agreed with him upon every subject—and
was walking with May Beverley across the hills. Very
soon we lost our way.
There are moments when, in losing our way, we find all that
is worth having in this world of disappointments, sorrows, and
regrets!
The afternoon was dreamy and memorial. The affluent glories
of the splendid autumn burned away; and on every side the
forests blazed with crimson, blue, and gold—slowly fading now
into the russet brown of winter. The mountain slopes were
magical in their vivid coloring; and you would have said the
banners of all nations flaunted in the dreamy atmosphere. The
sky was like the blue eyes of a girl, when, opening from bud to
blossom, she expands into the perfect flower of womanhood; the
limpid waters of the streamlets near lapsed away as sweetly as the
“murmur of a dream;” and over all the scene of shining stream,
and deep blue sky, and azure mountain, drooped the mellow
haze of the mild Indian summer, rounding every outline, softening
every tint, and making of this lovely region a bright Arcady
of love and poesy and dreams!
Such was the scene amid which I wandered with the woman
I had loved so long; and, like some magical influence, it melted
deep into the hearts of those who gazed upon it. All the silver
spangles of the ocean rippling in the wind, all the glitter of the
stars, the murmur of the waves, the perfume of the breezes, and
the dreamy splendor of the sky seemed here to mingle into one
supreme and perfect whole of love and joy and beauty!
Only, yonder, not a mile away, is heard the thunder of the
guns as Pelham drives the enemy back; and ever it draws
nearer—that grim sound which seems to desecrate the tranquil
landscape.
May Beverley does not seem to hear it. She is sitting now
upon a mossy rock, beneath a little pine; and, looking down,
with cheeks suffused in blushes, plays with the tassel of her belt,
or with an autumn flower, which she has plucked beside the
rock. The other hand—once she strove to withdraw it, but the
effort had been soon abandoned. It trembled slightly, but rested
in the clasp which encircled it.
The pine-tree listened doubtless to the murmurs, mingling
with the whisper of its tassels as the low breeze stirred them on
that mild memorial afternoon.
Did it hear a woman whisper, as her head sank on the bosom
of a man who held her in his arms, clasped to his heart—hear
her murmur with a face full of tears and blushes:
“Yes! from the moment when you lay before me, pale and
motionless, in the wood, that day!”
“And never forgot me—never lost sight of the poor soldier,
living only for you?”
“Never! never!”
O pine-tree, never whisper what you heard or saw! There
are things which the cold world laughs at, makes it cynical jest
of, and so desecrates.
Yet who shall dare to laugh at the spectacle of a proud and
beautiful girl, long fettered by a hateful contract, shuddering at
a loathsome union with a man she despises—who shall laugh
when she gives way to her heart, and, falling weak and overcome
into the arms of one who has loved her long and dearly,
murmurs, “Take charge of my poor life—direct my fate—I
have loved, and love you only!”
That was the confession which came in a murmur from the
beautiful lips of the proud May Beverley, and she made it amid
the thunder of the guns, her face hid in my breast, heart beating
against heart.
