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BESSIE GREEN.
“O, what a terrible thing it is to have everybody hate
me!”
The words were childish, and the speaker was little past her
tenth year. She was a strange-looking object, as she sat, in
the dim twilight, at the window of an old-fashioned farm-house.
It was Thanksgiving day, and the good people of Ryefield
were making merry, far and wide.
There were bright fires upon the spacious hearths, and spruce-boughs
and branches of asparagus waved over the red-framed
looking-glasses, and above the windows hung twigs of holly,
with their bright red berries.
But nowhere wore the spruce-boughs a brighter green, or
the holly-berries a deeper red, than in the old farm-house of
Grandfather Morgan, as he was called, for thrice five miles
around.
In the old-fashioned parlor there were groups of happy children:
young men and maidens, just arrived at the awkward
stage of blushes, and supererogatory hands; meek-eyed mothers,
and bold, sturdy-looking farmers, in home-made trousers and
cow-hide boots.
On either side of the hearth-stone sat old Grandfather Morgan
and his wife, and between them the fire danced and sparkled, and
a thousand caressing folds.
But one there was to whose eye there came no light, to
whose cheek there came no flush; for there was no mother's hand
to brush back the heavy tresses from her brow, no mother's lips
to murmur blessings over her, or rest softly on her upturned
cheek.
So there, in the lonely kitchen, with her young face pressed
closely against the narrow window-pane, sat little Bessie Green,
sometimes sighing fitfully, as sounds of mirth and childish laughter
floated to her ears, through the half-closed doors of the other
room.
She was by no means a pretty child. Her brow was not particularly
smooth, soft or low; nor was her hair in the least similar
to braided sunshine. Her eyes were not blue as the Indian
seas; nor yet did her fair cheek flush like the heart of a summer
rose, beneath the shadow of long, golden lashes.
There was no charm in her elfin features to win your heart;
and yet, if you believed in goblins and fairies, you would look
twice at the almost unearthly face, peering from beneath the
tangled masses of her black hair. The hair itself might have
been made passable by good management; as it was, her face
had no recommendation, save that her wild black eyes were lit
by a kind of bold fearlessness, which all the contumely incidental
to her situation had not been able to subdue.
And yet it seemed a strange thing that one so young, so innocent,
should be so utterly alone. Strange that even Grandfather
Morgan's kind eyes grew stern as he looked on her, and young
faces darkened as she joined their circle.
Stranger still, when you knew that Grandmother Morgan had
borne the poor child's mother beneath her heart.
Amy Morgan had been called the fairest flower of Ryefield,
from the time she first opened her blue eyes to the light of a
midsummer morning. Fifteen summers had she roamed through
moor and meadow-land; fifteen winters had she sat by her
father's side, in the fire-shine at the farm-house, or the high-backed
pew at church, on a Sabbath day.
She was the very impersonation of the spirit of gladness; and
yet, low down in her soul, was a spring of unquiet waters, of
whose existence she had never dreamed, in the sunshine of her
innocent young heart.
Flowers — fresh, warm heart-flowers — were springing there,
which no hand had gathered; and the wild tide of passion lay
hushed and still, like some sunny lake, which has never mirrored
the face of mortal.
But, like the charmed existence of the sleeping-beauty, this
heart-sleep was destined to have an end, when there should appear
some cavalier daring enough to break through the hedge of
thorns, and kiss into the warmth and life of passion the untold
dreams and fancies walking through the shadowy aisles of her
heart, like nuns through the aisles of a convent.
One day she had been out to gather flowers, when she met a
stranger in the forest. You could scarcely have imagined a
fairer picture than was Amy. On the green grass beside her
lay her simple straw hat, tied round with a blue ribbon. Her
lap was full of wild-flowers, and she was telling, school-girl like,
impossible fortunes with the leaves of a forget-me-not, when her
reveries were interrupted by a rich, musical voice. Looking up,
He addressed her in a strain of a playful gallantry, as new as it
was pleasing. Fairy, and sprite, and princess, were among the
high-sounding titles with which he dignified her, until at last she
faltered, between her blushes,
“O no, sir, you are mistaken; I am only Amy Morgan, daughter
of the farmer who lives in yonder brown cottage.”
“And I, sweet maiden, — I am only Clarence Green, passed-midshipman
in the United States service; so let us sit down
upon this bank, and get acquainted, since we 've met here, on
the very hunting-grounds of the fairies.”
If Amy had been startled at first, his respectful manner, and
the open glance of his black eyes, were sufficient to reässure her;
and she sat by his side, on the green bank, without withdrawing
the trembling hand he had prisoned in his own.
And there, for many a summer day, they met, till love, deep
and all-absorbing, took possession of sweet Amy Morgan, till, at
her lover's bidding, she would have laid down even life itself.
O, bitter, in this deceitful world, is almost always the recompense
of a love like this!
Grandfather Morgan frowned when he saw the handsome
stranger wandering by Amy's side over the fields, and lifting
her slight form over the swollen brooks; but Amy was his darling,
and the expression of his dislike was suppressed.
“Next month, Amy, when the fruit gets heavy and falls
down, and the ripe peaches blush in the autumn sunshine, you
shall be my bride,” whispered Clarence Green, as he sat by
Amy's side.
And then, with whispered words of endearment and supplication,
that woman can give, and more than she can give without dashing
every drop of joy from the chalice of her life.
Clarence Green had no time to prove whether the love he had
professed was true, whether he would have called Amy wife ere
the waning of the autumn moon; for, in less than one short week,
he was thrown from the back of his horse, upon a pile of sharp
stones, and killed.
Amy uttered few words of lamentation, but the rose faded
from her cheek, and her face grew thinner and more spiritual.
Months had passed; and, one night, toward the close of February,
she stole, with her noiseless footfall, into the old kitchen,
and, kneeling at the feet of her stern father, sobbed out, in broken
words, the story of her shame.
For a moment Grandfather Morgan sat silent; then his voice
broke forth, not in words of pity or mercy, but in half-stifled
curses on the destroyer of his child.
Tears of bitter agony coursed over Amy Morgan's pale cheeks,
and, clasping her hands, she pleaded, “O, father, dear father, do
not curse the dead! Let your anger fall on me, for I deserve it,
but not on Clarence! If he had lived, I should have been his
wife; and now, even now, would I lay down this guilty, miserable
life, to call him back but for one short hour! O, father, do
not curse him, or I shall die here on the stone hearth at your
feet!”
But the tide of wrath burned fiercely in the father's heart,
and, even as she knelt there, with her hands clasped and the
tears streaming over her cheeks, with one blow of his arm he
lips, in a warm red stream, over her white garments.
The repentant father caught her to his heart, and bore her to
her own little room; but when he called on her to forgive him,
to look on him once more, she only muttered incoherent ravings
of agony.
That night, amid the storm and tempest and the fierce howl of
angry winds, Bessie Green was born. Fit welcome for a child
of shame! Not even her mother's voice could arouse poor Amy
from the stupor into which she seemed to have fallen. Only
once she spoke coherently. It was when they put her baby in
her arms.
“It has its father's eyes,” she murmured, as she strained it convulsively
to her breast. “The world is cold for thee, my motherless
one! I 've nothing to give thee but a name; let them call
thee Bessie Green!”
And then, still holding her child, she closed her eyes, as if in
prayer; her breath grew shorter and shorter, and her soul
passed forth upon the wing of the tempest, to the throne of Him
who said to one of old time, “Go, daughter; sin no more!”
Bitter was the repentance of Farmer Morgan over the grave
of his dead child; strange that it softened not his heart toward
the living.
But no; the little Bessie looked on them with her father's
eyes, and scarcely the mother's blood which flowed in her veins
kept her from being the object of hatred, as she surely was of
dislike. When Grandmother Morgan looked at her, the sweet
face of her Amy, with its golden curls, seemed to arise in contrast
eyes.
Bessie never played like other children. Sometimes she would
watch the wind-driven clouds, sometimes hold a feather up to be
swayed by the breeze, sometimes read by the firelight strange
tales of ghosts and goblins, that no one knew how she had contrived
to pick up. But her dearest pleasure was to steal out to
her mother's grave, where a white cross had been raised, bearing
no inscription but that sweet name, Amy, and weep there with
her lips pressed to the cold marble, calling on the dead by every
endearing title that she could recall.
She had grown up entirely unaccustomed to be loved or petted;
and yet she felt her loneliness keenly, this gay Thanksgiving
night, with so many young and happy hearts around her.
For a long time she sat in the dimly-lighted kitchen, with her
face pressed to the window; and then, starting up, she stole away
into her own little room, up stairs. The moon had risen now, and
by its light she took from her pine bureau a gold locket, containing
the blended hair of both her parents, and fastened it around
her neck.
Then, wrapping herself in her shawl, she stole out into the
keen, frosty air of the winter evening. The snow had fallen
heavily the night before, and it lay now upon the ground, sometimes
in drifts, sometimes in broad, white sheets.
But onward sped the poor, lonely child, over bank and hollow,
until at last she reached the village church-yard, and knelt beside
her mother's grave, with her lips pressed against the cold head-stone.
For a half-hour she continued kneeling there, sobbing out her
but in a direction opposite to her grandfather's farm-house. The
one purpose was strong in her mind, to escape from such coldness
and misery.
The next morning Bessie Green was missed from the old homestead.
A few inquiries were made for her; but the search was
neither active nor long sustained, and in a few days her fate had
nearly ceased to be an object of wonder or anxiety.
Ten years had passed; and one afternoon, late in the winter,
the village sewing-society had assembled at Grandfather Morgan's.
The usual topics of village interest had been discussed. It had
been “allowed” that “Anna Ellis' new silk dress was the most extravagantest
thing ever seen in those parts;” and that it was “a
burnin' shame for that Anna Ellis to have sich a dress, when
everybody in Ryefield knew her father was only a poor blacksmith,
and she herself put on the airs of a city young lady.”
Then it had been decided that Charlotte Lincoln had turned
off 'Squire Knight's son, because he was seen coming out of the
tavern on a Sunday night.
The gossip of the village having been consummated, a lady
present, who had been visiting in New-York, remarked that she
had there heard the distinguished vocalist Clara Fisher, and engrossed
the rest of the afternoon in a description of melodies
which, according to her account, were but little inferior to those
in the Swedish legend, where Father Alfus passes a century,
Paradise.
Great, therefore, was the surprise of the good people of Ryefield,
when, at their next sewing-society, it was announced, by the
same indisputable authority, that the illustrious vocalist, at whose
concerts, it was confidently reported, a hundred dollars had
been paid for a single seat, was coming to give a free concert,
her last for the season, in the old Presbyterian church, in their
own humble village.
Time passed on, and the report was confirmed by the arrival
of an orchestra, and the putting up of some printed handbills.
Everything having been made ready, the lady herself came
also. Dressed in black and closely veiled, she was handed by
her servant from her travelling-carriage, and up the steps of the
only hotel of which the village could boast.
Her meals were served in her own room, by her own servants;
and though everybody was at the church a half-hour before the
appointed time, yet the singer was not seen, until, at seven o'clock
precisely, she stepped from behind the curtain, and walked forth
upon the stage; how and when she came there being, to this day,
a mystery to the good people of Ryefield.
She was habited in a close-fitting robe of black velvet, cut
low in the neck. Her shoulders seemed fair as statuary, as they
shone through the scarf of illusion lace which enveloped her
figure like a mantle of dew-drops. Her hair was looped back
in heavy braids, and in its folds nestled a single japonica. Her
features were regular, but you could scarcely tell what was their
contour; for, in looking at her, one noticed nothing but those
dark eyes — eyes which, having been once seen, would haunt your
But when her voice burst upon the air, in a strain of low,
thrilling sweetness, earth itself was forgotten in a dream of
heaven!
She had chosen, for the most part, simple, touching ballads,
such as “Auld Robin Gray,” and Dunn English's song of “Ben
Bolt;” but when at last she concluded the entertainment with
“Allan Percy,” faintly warbled, she received from the audience,
not enthusiastic cheers; not, as in her southern concerts, bouquets
of exotics knotted round with diamonds; but the richer tribute
of tears, and sighs, and stifled sobs.
Meekly she bowed her graceful head, with the tear-drops resting
on her lashes, and passed behind the curtain. Slowly, half
sadly, the people rose, as if under the spell of an enchantress;
and thus ended Clara Fisher's concert at Ryefield.
The next day, the orchestra and the instruments and the
travelling-carriage disappeared, and it was supposed the veiled
lady had accompanied them.
That evening Grandfather and Grandmother Morgan sat alone
before their brightly-blazing fire, their chairs drawn close together.
They had been talking of the previous evening's entertainment,
and Grandmother Morgan said it seemed to her as if
the angels in heaven were singing in chorus.
“Wife,” whispered the old man, as he pushed his chair a little
nearer hers, “did the singer's voice remind you of any you
ever heard before?” and he bent his lips close to her ear.
“Amy,” gasped the old woman, from between her closed
teeth.
It was the first time that word had been spoken between them
for years, and it seemed like the opening of a coffin.
“Yes, Amy,” answered the old man; “her voice seemed
strangely like that of our poor dead girl.”
Then, for a time, there was silence between them. At last the
old woman said,
“Husband!”
“Well, wife?”
“I have been thinking, mayhap, we did n't treat that poor child
Bessie as well as we ought. She, poor thing, was not to blame
for her father's misdeeds, and we ought to have been all the
kinder to her because she was lonesome-like. I wish I could
know where she is, before I die.”
“Wife,” answered the old man, “it 's just twenty years to-night,
since Amy died. We shall sleep beside her long before twenty
more years have passed.”
At this moment there was a light tap on the outer door, and
the singer, Clara Fisher, stood before them. Drawing a chair
to the fire, she said, in a singularly musical tone, while her face
was turned from the light, “You had a grandchild once, named
Bessie Green. May I tell you of her, or do you hate her name
even now?”
“O, tell us, tell us!” cried both at once, with trembling eagerness;
and Grandfather Morgan added, “We have been unjust to
the poor child; God grant we may have her forgiveness before
we die!”
The singer's voice was husky when she commenced to speak;
but it soon grew clear and strong.
“Thanksgiving night,” she said, “Thanksgiving night, a little
by your kitchen window. There was light and life around
her; but no one seemed to remember her existence, and she was
very desolate. At last she went forth into the cold night air,
with but one purpose in her childish heart, to steal away from
the mirth and joy around her. She wandered on, on, until at
last, when it seemed as if her trembling limbs could bear her
weight no longer, she met a kind physician returning homeward
from a midnight ride. The moon shone down upon her, full and
clear, and the good man stopped his horse, at the sight of the
little figure tottering through the drifting snow.
“`Where are you going, my little one?' he asked, kindly. —
`Anywhere, sir,' was the reply. `I don't know where, myself.' —
`Are you not very tired?' — `Yes, sir, very.' — `Would you like to
ride home with me?' — `O, thank you, yes, sir!' and the strong,
kind arms lifted her upon the horse, and, clasping the stranger's
neck, she fell fast asleep as she rode away.
“He would have brought the child back to you; but she prayed
so earnestly to remain, that he ceased his persuasions, and
whispered to his meek-eyed wife, as he looked on his own six
hungry boys, `God will provide for them, dear love!'
“In the early spring there came to the little cottage an old
college friend of the doctor's. The stranger was a celebrated
musician, and, one day, hearing Bessie singing to herself, he
said that, as surely as the great Father had given to every one
of his creatures a proper vocation, music was hers; and he offered
to take her with him, and have her instructed.
“Dr. Maitland called her to his side. `Hard as 't will be to
part with you, my Bessie,' he said, `I think it best that you
you please.'
“For a while the poor child hesitated; she was loved at Maitland
cottage, and to her love brought a strange blessedness; but
her child-heart comprehended that it was best to go, and, timidly
raising her dark eyes, she placed her hand in that of Ernest
Fisher.
“He gave her a thorough musical education; and when he died
bequeathed to her his name and his renown, all he had to bestow.
She went before the public, with the one purpose warm in her
heart, of winning wealth and fame, that you might love her; for
I, dear parents,” — and she sank on her knees before them, — “I
am Bessie Green! In every triumph, my heart has longed for
love, the pure, sweet love of kindred. I have wealth and fame
now; all, all are yours, — only bless me once, and call me your
dear child before I die!”
But the voices were choked with tears that would have murmured
blessings on her, and the hands trembled that were laid
upon her bowed head. At last, they sank upon their knees beside
their beautiful child, and together, in the silence, they prayed —
the reünited!
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