University of Virginia Library

[FROM “THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.”
MAY LESTER.

BY MARY B. C. SLADE.

“And so, May, you have refused young Halsey,
on whom more mamas have looked approvingly,
and more daughters smilingly, than upon
any other “eligible” who has graced our city
this winter. In truth, nay, I am vexed with
you; if I had time or patience, I would count
the conquests you have made this season, all of
them brilliant ones, and all in vain. O naughty
May.”

“Unintentional, Annie, wholly unintentional.”

“But you shall lay aside your book and listen
to me now. I regret Halsey's repulse, for you
know he is one of my favorites; but Chester
rejoices at it! Ah, I thought I should rouse you.
I have not seen my husband more delighted,
since—”

“Since you did not refuse him?” said May.
“Well, tell me why, for see, my horse is at the
door, and I am in haste to ride away from
scoldings and proposals.”

May Lester was a lovely and beautiful woman.
She had been spending the winter months with
her friend in New York, and had only delayed
her return to Virginia, to her own beautiful
home, for she was an orphan heiress, to accompany
her friends on an excursion through the
Northern States.

The brilliant southern lady had won the admiration
of many even in the city of beauty, but
the offered homage of all hearts had, as in this
last instance, been kindly, but calmly refused.

Yet was May Lester no artful coquette, for
no word or tone of his had lured on the fascinated
sufferers. The dying moth may not chide
the flame that for him burned all too brightly.
As she stood there in her beauty, with a bright
smile beaming on her sweet countenance, her
clear laugh, at the evident dissatisfaction of Mrs.
Marsh, was like the merry tone of an innocent
and guileless child.

“Come,” said she, “let me know what this
good husband of yours says; no wonder he
rejoices in Halsey's escape. Is it so?”

“O no—he gives me far other reasons. You
know I permit him to be one of your enthusiastic
admirers, and he says he knows but one being
on earth who is your equal, and he rejoices that
you are stll free, for that one will soon be here
to enter the lists. One more trial,” says Chester,
“and then if your heart is not won, he will
agree with me, that you would not love if you
could, and could not if you would.”

“Admirable!” cried May; “only one more
trial! Meanwhile, I must burnish my armor

and be in readiness for the conflict. But who
is this paragon, and when shall I see him? Do
give timely notice;” and May's musical laugh
again rang out as she sprang into the saddle,
and patting her horse gently upon the neck,
added, “Tell me all about it, so that if I dread
the trial, Selim and I may run away to Virginia.”

“He is a schoolmate of Chester's whom he
left in college and met again in France. The
meeting was mutually pleasant, and for a short
time they journeyed together. Chester left his
friend in Italy. He has now returned and is
with his mother in P—. He will soon be with
us, for Chester has invited him to join our party,
and he has friends in the North whom he is
anxious to visit. You would begin to love him,
should you hear Chester eulogize his many good
qualities.”

“And his name?”

“His name is Henry Lincoln. He is of one
of the best families in the North, and very rich,
withal.”

Mrs. Marsh had turned as she spoke, to reach
a branch of the fragrant clematis that twined
about the pillar against which she leaned, and
she did not observe that May was silent. Turning
towards her she saw her hand relax its hold
of the bridle, the whole expression of her countenance
had changed, the color left her cheeks,
her eyes were fixed mournfully, and her pale
lips moved as if struggling for the power of expression;
and as Mrs. Marsh sprang forward,
she sank to the ground, and murmuring, “He!
Harry Lincoln,” closed her eyes in deep insensibility.

It was long before consciousness returned,
and then with a wild look of agony she begged
to be left alone. Long after, when the anxious
and sorrowing Annie stole to her door, she sat
with her bowed head resting upon one hand, and
without seeking to know who was the intruder,
she shook her other hand in weary impatience,
and Annie left her again.

In the evening she opened a note from her.
“Come to me,” it said, “and see how one who
“could not love, can suffer.” When Mrs.
Marsh sat down by the side of the couch on
which she lay, and clasped the feverish hand that
hung by its side, between her own trembling
fingers, and looked into that pale, sad face, she
started with terror, for May Lester seemed no
longer herself. Could it be that this was the
true May, and that the smiling girl she had
known so long had been, all along, a suffering
and enduring woman?

After a moment of silence she said:

“Annie, I must go home to-morrow; I cannot
stay here another day.”

She did not pause to notice Annie's look of
amazement and gush of tears, but went on, her
voice feeble and trembling as a sick child's, and
low, plaintive and sad.

“Long ago, Annie, when we were children,
O how long ago it seems! I told you all my
little joys and sorrows. As I grew older I still
confided in you; but there is one thing I have
never told you, nor should I now but for this
weakness that seems to you so strange. O Annie,
your calm and quick nature can but faintly
comprehend the love I bear, and long have
borne to him—to Harry Lincoln.

“We met for the first time during the last
year of my father's life, while we were at Niagara.
His father and mine had loved each other
in youth, and that love had strengthened as years
passed on, and when my father learned that
he was Dudley Lincoln's son, he greeted him
with the same warm friendship. O, Annie, can
I tell you all? When we left Niagara he went
with us. I was very happy then. I was the
child of wealth and unbounded love. I seldom
knew an ungratified wish, and among those
beautiful scenes it was not strange that I, whose
greatest joy had ever been in the love of the
beautiful in nature, should rejoice in spirit. But
now there was a new feeling in my soul; day by
day it stole into my heart—day by day it strengthened
there.

“He was my companion in all my daily
walks; his was the same strong, pure delight—
his the same chastened feeling, as together we
looked upon the sacred impersonations of the
spirit of beauty. I told him all my thoughts and
sang for him all my sweetest songs, and so the
time flew away and I loved him, yet I knew it
not! One day—we were among the White
Mountains then—my father had left us, and Harry
had been speaking as only he could speak, of
the beauty around us and its effect upon our
souls, and then he added a regret that we must
so soon leave scenes where we had been so happy—that
we must so soon part. I had not
dreamed of this before, and now the thought was
terrible, and I wept passionately. Then Annie,
I knew that I loved him, and when, hand in
hand we descended that mountain, the joy of
the blessed was in my soul, for I knew that the
love of that noble being was all my own.

“My father smiled on me that night, and his

`God bless you, my child!' came with a more
thrilling tone as he kissed my burning cheek, and
whispered his joy in mine.

“With the instinctive delicacy of a first love,
I begged that our engagement might be a secret
with us, and my father acceded to my
wish. Life was, O, so beautiful to me then, Annie.
I went out alone, early, very early upon
the morning of the next day, and walked by the
side of one of the pleasant streams that wind
their way down the mountain, and it seemed to
me that the waters smiled upon me like loving
sisters, for far up in their high home they had
heard the precious words of yesterday, and the
little white violets that never before seemed so
purely beautiful—I picked them, and impulsively
kissed their pale lips—the light within made all
things light without. Then I sat down upon a
rock covered with green, soft moss, and I sang
a new song; the words came from my heart;
there were none in my memory fit for such deep
thankfulness; and then a manly voice full of
music repeated my words, for he had been near
me all the while. When I leaned on his arm to
return, it seemed to me that we two were fit to
go through the blue portals above, to our home
in heaven. God only knew how much of purifying
sorrow one of us still needed.

“We parted that day, and Annie, I have never
seen him since! Four years only have passed
by, and my head is not yet gray; but I am old,
very old in heart, and ages seem to have dragged
their slow length of years in my soul since
that hour!

“We parted; I went to my far home to gaze
in secret upon the beautiful miniature that even
my father never saw, to sing the songs he loved,
to finish the sketches his hand had begun, to read
the books he preferred, to watch for the coming
of the white-winged messengers of love he
sent to me, to worship at an earthly shrine, to
experience the bitter retribution of a wronged
and broken heart, and to turn again to Him
whose altar I had forsaken for this thing of
clay.

“He returned to Yale to finish his studies.
His frequent letters were perfect transcripts of
himself; to the last they breathed the same endearing
love; but man is fickle and his love
changes like the fitful wind.

“When I received that last I was at my uncle's.
He had just returned from Europe, and
with him the gentleman to whom Aunt May had
long been engaged, and for the love of whom
she had been leading through dewy youth and
sunny womanhood a life of waiting hope and
patient duty. He returned rich and honored,
and Aunt May became his wife.

“Then my father died. He lived only a week
after the marriage of his sister; in the strength
of manhood he passed away, peacefully, joyfully,
as a Christian should die. O had he known
the bitterness in store for me, he had not died
thus calmly.

“Many days had elapsed, bringing me no
letter from Harry; I was sick with fear, for he
had spoken of enfeebled health, and I knew that
he was making great efforts to graduate with
honor, and so when the letter came to us announcing
my father's death, I dared not break
its sombre seal. He still lived, but my noble
father was in heaven!

“Annie, since then, life has been very dark to
me. God has strengthened me, and I have
striven daily to fulfil my mission on earth, and
an approving conscience has not left me wholly
without calm and peaceful satisfaction; but I
have never been happy, I shall never be again
on earth, for Annie, I love him still. I loved him
once—and forever. He has failed me, but still
I love him—once and forever.

“Day after day I waited and watched and
hoped to hear from him; then I said I will write
to him again. I wrote; I had sealed my letter,
but in my haste I had taken a seal I never used
before, and the clear impression of “delusion,”
scornfully smiled upon me from the gleaming
wax. Then first, then wholly, the bitter truth
sank into my soul; at once the full consciousness
swept over me that I, so deeply loving, had
been too lightly loved. I was deluded no longer.

“Since then I have heard his name but twice;
once Aunt May wondered I should so soon have
forgotten the gentleman with whom my father
had been so pleased at Niagara. Another time
it was at a large party, and I laughed and chatted
with the veriest butterfly of the evening,
while I heard the bitter words—`he had gone to
Europe,' they said, `suddenly; immediately, indeed,
after leaving college, where,' they said,
`he graduated with highest honors.' I knew why
he went thus capriciously. I knew that he wished
not to meet me so soon whom he had so wronged.
Yet I laughed at that moment, and by-and-by
I danced, and Annie, it was one of my `brilliant
nights.' You have seen such, and you
have heard them say, ah! so have I—`how happy
is May Lester!' and all the while, God only
knew the agony I bore within.

“So Annie, let me go to-morrow; I am weak
and weary-hearted now, and I must go away
and nerve myself to meet him as I ought. God
will strengthen me in my painful way.”

It was long past midnight when Annie Marsh
left that couch of misery. She, the teacher and
chider of the morning, had learned in the still
midnight a life-lesson of endurance.

When May Lester was alone, she prayed long
and earnestly for strength for her own need,
but most of all, for the happiness of him who
had wronged her. Then she sweetly slept; for
forgiveness of injuries is fragrant incense before
God, and angels fan with their bright wings the
fire of that altar on which it is burning.

The next night Henry Lincoln's voice sounded
in the ears of those who had just heard her
sad farewell, and her last words, “Call me Helen
Lester, my mother's name, if you speak of me
in his presence.”

Annie Marsh strove to greet her new guest
cordially and kindly. Before the close of the
evening a thought had crossed her sunny spirit
that some dark cloud of mystery shaded the
life of her friend; at least she could not believe
that Lincoln was the heartless trifler she had
been ready to condemn a few hours before.

His calm, courtly manner in the presence of
other guests bore no trace of suffering, but when
all had gone and he was alone with Mr. and
Mrs. Marsh, his voice grew sad as he spoke of
old times and scenes, and when Chester alluded
to the last months of his college life, he seemed
lost in painful thought.

“And did you continue, across the sea, the
correspondence about which we wild ones teased
you so greatly?” said Chester. “Those little
gems of letters must have gone tremblingly on
so long a voyage.”

Lincoln bowed his head, but made no reply, and
Annie left them full of hope for her friend. After
a brief silence Lincoln asked abruptly, “Who
is this Miss Lester whose sudden departure your
friends regret so much?”

Chester had not yet learned the cause of Mary's
request, but he replied quickly:

“O Helen Lester is a beauty, a belle, and an
heiress, who has been visiting us from her home
in the South; but she has left us rather abruptly.”

“I am not surprised at any act of caprice in
one of her sex and name,” said Lincoln, but as
if regretting the remark, he hastily changed the
subject; but he left Chester a ready convert to
the opinion of his wife, when he had heard her
story and told his own.

“There sings May's canary,” said Annie, the
next morning; “poor little thing, it shall not
miss her loving care.”

As she fed the gentle bird a calm voice bade
her good-morning, and Lincoln stood by her side.

“I will know all before he leaves me,” thought
she, and her plan was quickly devised.

“Is not this a beautiful bird?” said she, as
she smoothed his golden feathers and pressed it
to her own sweet face—“and I love it the better
for its pretty name, the name of her whose gift
it is; “May,” sweet May, it should not be a
common name, unless all Mays were gentle and
true like our May Lester, like the May we love,
my bird,” and she fondled the favorite again,
hardly daring to cast a glance toward Lincoln
to mark the effect of her words.

In a moment he stepped forward, and grasping
her hand, said, in a voice sad even in his
indignation:

“Call her not gentle and true, for I have
known May Lester well, and she is a heartless
woman. God grant that she may not have just
heart enough for remorse. My friend, this true
and gentle May married, after the briefest acquaintance,
a man old enough to be her father,
because he bore an honored name, and was the
possessor of countless thousands; and this, too,
when she knew that she must ruin the fondest
hopes of one who loved her as few ever love;
and not one week before her marriage she wrote
to him full of love and trust; to me, my friend,
for I am he who loved her, and I am he whom
she so bravely deceived! Her father only knew
of our engagement. He died within a month.
He could refuse her nothing, but his high sense
of honor must have bowed humbly when he
knew that his promise and her plighted word
must be broken to gratify the matrimonial ambition
of a misguided girl.”

Lincoln had spoken too impetuously to observe
his auditor, and now, as he paused and raised his
to hers, for an instant he thought she mocked
him; but the sweet smile he saw had no malice
in it, and those mild eyes beamed so kindly
upon him as she led him to a seat in the pleasant
shade by an open window, and there seemed
something so joyful in her elastic step, that a
strange hope stole over him.

“Listen now,” she said, to my story; and
she told in her sweet, artless manner, the story
of May Lester, loving, forsaken, suffering!

“But the marriage,” said the bewildered
Lincoln, “I surely saw it announced in many
southern papers.”

“When you see our May,” said Chester, who
entered at this moment, “you will not regret
that you could not marry the maiden aunt, who,
though she is one of earth's noblest and best, is
“old enough to have been your mother.”

“Four years of sorrow for my May,” sighed
Annie, “through a mistake!”

“Four years of bitterness,” for me, “added
Lincoln, “through this sad mistake!”

“Four years of pique at not being able to
marry an old maid,” laughed Chester. “But
come,” said he, “with me, and make arrangements
for a journey to Virginia. Annie and I
constitute ourselves your guardians, yours and
May's—we shall go with you until May Lester
is May Lincoln, or we shall have another trip to
Europe and Asia in a fit of pique.”

“It was late in the afternoon of a lovely day
when the travelling carriage of Mr. Marsh approached
an old but elegant country mansion
in northern Virginia. Annie and Mr. Lincoln
walked up the broad avenue leading to the
house, and Annie felt the arm on which she
leaned tremble, as they stood upon the vine-shaded
gallery. A female form was seen near
the open window, and Annie, stepping noiselessly
forward, whispered, “she is sleeping.”

They passed in, and the strong man bowed
his head and wept like a child, for an open casket
was before her, and many letters were upon
the table, and he knew their contents. One, his
last, lay beneath her hand and a tear rested upon
her closed eyelids. An open piano stood near,
and upon it lay an old gem of song she had
oftenest played for him. Her little hand was
almost as thin and transparent as the paper on
which it rested, and there was a hollowness to
her cheek that told of a worn and chafed spirit.
Annie ran her fingers lightly over the keys and
filled the room with a sweet gush of music.

The poor girl awoke, and instinctively grasping
that last letter, arose. Annie's smile met
her eye, and then it fell on Harry Lincoln!
There was a strange mingling in her face for an
instant, of wild agony and old delight, and then
her proud spirit rose in maidenly strength, and
she stepped forward to greet him as she had
schooled her heart to do; but she had overrated
her strength, and she sank fainting back again.
She was still conscious, and his quick words
told her the story of years in a moment. They
were alone, and when long afterward they joined
Mr. and Mrs. Marsh in the garden, a holy
trust shone on either face, and it shone from the
heart.

“Was I not right?” said Chester, as they
approached, “Is he not worthy of her?”

“Yes, you are always right,” was the very
wifely reply.

“And you are always trustful and hopeful, or
this mystery had not so soon been solved.”

There was a merry ringing of bells and a
joyous bridal party in the old church where May
Lester's father and mother were married, and
when the old minister, whose hand, long years
before, had sprinkled the baptismal water upon
her infant brow, laid his feeble hand upon her
head and blessed her, and she turned away from
the altar to begin from that holy moment, from
that sacred spot, the journey of life anew, her
eye fell upon his grave who had blessed her
young heart's choice. The rays of the setting
sun rested upon it, and as the green turf and
sweet flowers shone in the sunlight, her father's
grave smiled upon her, and she knew that he
smiled in heaven!