University of Virginia Library

POOR MAUD.

Have you ever heard the shrieks, and shouts, and jeers, of a
frantic madman? Have you seen the mocking laughter in his
wild eyes, or the swollen veins knotted on his flushed brow? If
so, you bear on your heart a daguerreotype of the wildest horror
whose impress a human heart can bear. But there are milder
and still more tearfully appealing phases of insanity, where the
shattered intellect develops itself with a strange, rare beauty.
It was many years ago that I spent the lustrous southern summer
in a fair village of Louisiana. Villages are rarer there
than at the north, but occasionally you find a church, a post-office
and a school-house, and around them a few scattered
houses. Such was the village of Oakly, where I was staying.
It took its name from good old General Oakly, the largest
landed proprietor in those regions. The friend I was visiting
was no other than his fair daughter Kate, and Oakly Hall rang
with our merriment.

Kate Oakly was as pretty a specimen of a southern girl as
my Yankee eyes ever rested on. A brunette, tall and graceful,
with an exquisitely moulded figure, and red lips and sparkling

eyes that might have charmed a hermit from his cell, or a Mahometan
from his paradise. We were friends in the fullest
sense, for we each had a lover of our own; so, of course, there
was no quarrel to come between us. We had had sails, and
rides, and drives, without number; and at last, one morning,
taking a volume of Moore in our hands, we started out to vary
the ordinary programme by a long ramble.

It was the seventeenth of June. Never was there a day more
gloriously beautiful. The luxury of tropical sunshine had swelled
the buds on the almond-trees to bursting, and the whole fair
world around us seemed like a mighty garden. We wandered
along the banks of a dimpling, leaping stream, till we came to a
part of the grounds which I had never before visited. Suddenly,
as we climbed a little height, there burst upon my view the
fairest picture these eyes have ever witnessed. For a space, the
brook ran more slowly, and its murmurs subsided into low, sighing
dirge-notes. On its banks grew a fringe of drooping willows,
dipping their long, green fingers in the dimpling water. On one
side, where the bank sloped downward from the rivulet to a little
dell, there rose a small, plain cross, exquisitely sculptured from
the purest of Carrara marble. Around it was a neat and tasteful
iron paling, overgrown with the climbing rose and trumpet-creepers;
and on the cross itself hung tasteful garlands of the rarest
flowers, evidently freshly gathered.

Nor was this all. Within the enclosure, her head bowed to
the foot of the cross, knelt a female figure, in bridal robes. At
the first glance, I thought she too was chiselled out of marble,
she knelt there so still, and hushed, and breathless, with her
white drapery falling about her. A band of orange-flowers was

braided in her long curls, and they were of almost silvery whiteness.
Her face was so bowed upon the stone that I could not
see it, but in a moment more she spoke.

“Come forth out of thy grave, O my beloved!” she murmured;
“come forth! I have waited for thee these many
years, and now, behold, I kneel here once more attired for my
bridal. Come forth! The grave shall not hold me from thee!
I fear not the worm. This cross is heavier on thy breast than
my head ever was. Come forth! come forth!”

She seemed utterly unconscious of our presence. She paused
a moment, then wound her arms about the cross, as if trying to
lift it from the grave. Then she placed her ear to the ground
to listen; and, rising up in a moment, shook her head in despair,
and swayed her body mournfully to and fro, crying, wailingly,

“O, art thou false, my beloved? Dost thou not see the
bridal garland, and the white robes? I am all ready, but I
cannot die till thou comest. Come forth! come forth!”

Alas! alas! I too had loved. There was a breast where
my head had rested, where it might rest never again forever; a
sealed-up past, blistered with many tears, on whose leaves I
dared not look; and I bowed my head upon my clasped hands,
and wept in mortal agony. When once more I raised it, Kate
was kneeling by my side, with her soft arms wound about me.
The fierce despair which had swept over the mourner's soul
seemed to have passed away, and she knelt beside the cross,
binding over again the orange-flowers in her hair.

“It is well,” she said. “Peradventure he sleeps; or, peradventure,

he has gone on a journey. I shall have time to make
up my wreath.”

Kate Oakly knew all my heart. She knew how I looked
forth from the sheltering arms of my betrothed, to follow, with
tear-dimmed eyes, the form of a weary pilgrim, climbing in loneliness
the heights of fame. How thorns grew among the roses
of my love, and my ears were deaf to the whispers of the present,
as my soul roamed out into the shadow-land, thirsting and
waiting for a voice which long ago said, “I love you, Nellie!”
Therefore it was that I wept freely, with her soft arms wound
about me, for Kate was no intrusive comforter; and when at
last I smiled through my tears, pointing to the grave and the
mourner, I could only guess the depth of her loving sympathy
by the tender tearfulness of her voice as she replied:

“That is `Poor Maud,' Nellie. Every one calls her so. Go
and sit down with me under the thick trees, with your head in
my lap, and I'll tell you her story.”

In a moment we were seated at a little distance, partially
screened from the grave by the fringe of drooping willows; and
Kate began:

“Perhaps you noticed the name on the cross was Allan Oakly.
He was my father's only brother; and I suppose a handsomer or
more gifted man never trod the green fields of Louisiana. He
was, I have been told, very different from my father. You
know that papa is bluff, hearty and independent. Well, Uncle
Allan was sensitive as a woman. His fine, firmly-knit figure
was tall and slight. The lashes drooped over his olive cheek,
and his large, dark eyes were passionate and languishing, except
when kindled up by some martial ballad, or some strain of

impassioned song. My Uncle Allan was a soldier and a poet.
He was born so. The very qualities that gave fire and intensity
to his poetry nerved his heart on the battle-field. He chose
arms for his profession before he was out of the nursery, and his
whole education had been with a view to that end.

“His was the very nature to love with that intensity of passion
which poets like him have sung; but his choice was a mystery.
He was an eagle in his nature, and when before did the
eagle ever swoop from his eyrie, and do homage to the dove?
When, at nineteen, he came home from his military school, arrayed
in brilliant uniform, friends and neighbors vied with each
other in homage to his talents, and endeavors to enliven the
summer he passed at home. But his wayward and impetuous
nature would not be fettered by conventional restraints. He
used to steal away from all the enticements of society, and
wander for whole days in the vast solitudes of wood and plain.
It was thus that he first met Maud Vincent. He was one day
wandering in the forest, through which we rode the other day.
You remember how beautiful it is, and how romantically it rises
up, just behind the little country school-house. A New England
schoolmaster taught there then, — a poor man, widowed and
lonely, with but one child.

“My Uncle Allan had often passed the school-house, and
paused under its eaves to hear the children sing; and, though he
had never entered it, he was not without curiosity as to whose
could be that clear, rich soprano voice, leading the whole, which
swelled up to heaven with such bursts of melody. On the
day in question, as he wandered through the forest, he came
suddenly upon a sleeping maiden. He could not see her face,

for she lay upon a bank of moss, with her brow buried in her
clasped hands. Her dress was of some cheap, cotton fabric, neat
and simple; and the tiny foot that escaped from its folds was
faultless, with its black slipper and snowy stocking. A little
gilt-edged volume of the `Loves of the Angels' had just escaped
from the clasp of her dimpled fingers, and there she lay, like
another Peri, with the sunshine wandering over her golden
hair!

“Very gently Allan Oakly seated himself by her side, to
watch her slumbers and wait for her awaking. Then he raised
the book, and glanced at the passage she had been reading. A
faint pencil-mark was traced along its margin, and it ran thus:

“What more was needed? There was the charm of place
and time, and then these words seemed traced as a magic picture
of the beautiful sleeper. He laid down the book, and looked at
her in an unconscious ecstasy. At that moment she languidly
raised her fair head, and the soldier-poet did homage to the full
radiance of her beauty. Her figure was slight and delicate;

her face pure as a seraph's, with its calm brow, clear, blue eyes,
and the lights and shadows floating over it like the charmed
atmosphere of a dream. Allan Oakly looked and worshipped;
and when the maiden, who started on perceiving him, would
have fled, very respectfully he laid his hand on her arm to
detain her, and said, gently, `The soldier could never wrong
what the poet adores. I have watched your slumbers, and, now
that I have waited for you, will you not give me a moment?
Tell me, bright nymph of the forest, what do they call you when
you go among mortals?'

“`My name is Maud Vincent,' was the quiet reply, `and I
am the schoolmaster's daughter.'

“The conversation, the pleasant interview which followed,
were but the first among many. The young girl's heart yielded
itself up to his pleadings, in a flood of delicious, trembling joy; and
Allan Oakly wreathed with flowers his sword and lyre, and laid
them at the feet of the maiden of nineteen. When they parted
in the autumn, it was with the understanding that they were
betrothed, and the marriage was to be celebrated the next summer.
`It shall be when the June roses blow, Maud, darling,'
said the soldier-lover, — `June 17th, for that is your birth-day,
dearest; and your father shall give you to me the same day on
which God gave you to him.'

“My Grandfather Oakly was a proud, stern man. You have
seen his portrait, Nell. It hangs in the long gallery. From
time to time my Uncle Allan had resolved to tell him of his
betrothal, and implore his blessing. But he was withheld by a
knowledge of his father's stern pride and ambition. My father,
who was at that time very young, was his only confidant, and

papa, loving his elder brother almost to idolatry, never dreamed
of opposing his wishes. The winter passed very happily to
sweet Maud Vincent, cheered by frequent letters from her betrothed.
She loved him with a purity and singleness of heart,
that it was beautiful to see. The letters of his name spelt her
universe, and, like a sleep-walker cheered by glorious visions,
she passed on, heeding not cold, or darkness, for the summer
that was in her heart.

“In the spring they met once more, and Allan Oakly forgot
the doubts and shadows that lay heavy around his own heart,
while gazing into the sweet blue eyes of his plighted bride. In
those days, and especially in the plantation-districts of Louisiana,
parental authority was by no means the light thing it is
regarded now. No Romanist ever shunned the maledictions of
the Pope with a more fearful awe, than children, then, the curses
of their father. And perhaps, in all the country round, there
was not another man regarded with so servile and timid a
respect as my Grandfather Oakly. It was the first week in
June before my uncle could gather courage to tell his father of
his dream of love.

“They were standing together, in an alcove of the lofty wainscotted
parlor, when my grandfather laid his hand on Allan's
shoulder with an unwonted display of affection. `It is twenty-two
years ago to-day, my son, since your mother came into this
house a bride. It is ten years ago to-day, since she was carried
out of it a corpse, married to death. Never yet has my heart
found room for another image! You are very like your mother,
boy.'

“`Then you, sir, were twenty years old when you married. I

am twenty now. May I go forth, and bring you a daughter to
love, who will kneel with me at your feet for your blessing?'

“`You would wed, my son? On whom has your choice
fallen?'

“`On Maud Vincent, my father, — the schoolmaster's daughter!'

“I have been told the outbreaks of my grandfather's passion
were terrible to see; but he mastered himself, at last, sufficiently
to say, in a tone of suppressed rage, `Allan Oakly, marry
Maud Vincent, if you will; but from that hour you are no son
of mine; and with my dying breath I will curse you — curse
you — CURSE YOU!'

“Terror-stricken, my uncle glided from the room, with a blight
resting on his whole future. He loved Maud Vincent. For her
sake he could have braved death in its wildest forms. He could
have defied pain, or want, or ruin; but not, O, not a father's
curse! It wanted two weeks still to the day appointed for the
marriage. Already Maud's simple trousseau was completed,
and her lover had shared in her childish joy, when she tried on
her bridal dress of snowy muslin, looped up with orange-flowers;
and he made the discovery that she had never before looked
half so beautiful. How could he crush this innocent happiness,
and lay upon her pure young soul the blight which was
consuming his own? He resolved to wait until the last
moment.

“The night of the sixteenth of June was passed by him in
sleepless agony. He attempted to write to his betrothed, but
many times he snatched up the sheet and tore it in fragments.
At last he succeeded in producing a scrawl, blotted, and almost

illegible with tears, which he commissioned my father to deliver
to her, at the hour appointed for the nuptials. It was day-light
when he completed it, and in five minutes he took the early
morning stage for the capital.

“At ten o'clock that day, my father entered the schoolmaster's
cottage. He was but fifteen then, and his boyish heart was
deeply moved. Tears chased each other down his pale cheeks,
and his limbs trembled so violently he could hardly enter the
parlor. Maud was already attired for her bridal. Her golden
curls were crowned with a wreath of orange-flowers, and her
dimpled neck and arms looked fairer than ever, through the
fleecy folds of her snowy robe. She looked up with a glad,
joyous smile, as my father entered; and then, seeing him, she
cried, `O, it is you, good Bertie! Welcome, — but where is
Allan?'

“`He could not come yet,' said my father, in a choking voice,
`but he bade me give you this,' and he put the letter in her
hand. The blue eyes of the girl grew larger and larger, as she
read. It ran thus:

“All the time the girl read, her blue eyes had kept
growing larger and larger, and when she had finished she
calmly folded the letter and left the room. My father had
expected she would be stunned by the blow, or, at least, that she
would weep or faint; but she did neither. She was so very
calm that it frightened him, and he stole from the house.

“After that Maud came among the villagers as before. She
taught her own little class at day-school, and Sunday-school;
and there was no change, except that her eyes looked larger
and sadder, and her fair cheek grew thinner and paler, every
day. If any questioned her concerning her lover, `He has
gone to France,' she would answer, `and will return again,
after a time.'

“And so three years passed on. Each month there came a
letter for Maud, full of the most earnest protestations of
unchanging love, and imploring her to write him, if it were
but one word. Not one of these ever reached the sweet girl
for whom it was intended. My grandfather had control over
the post-office, as over most other things in that region. The
letters were given into his hands, and he read them, and locked
them in his desk. And still, in spite of all, he dearly loved his
first-born son Allan; and when he saw the clinging, passionate
tenderness with which his thoughts still turned to his early love,
he sat down and wrote him that Maud had forgotten him — that
Maud was wedded.

“Other years passed — sad, weary years to Allan Oakly — in
which he wrote no more letters to the schoolmaster's daughter.
Nor did he ever mention her name in his letters to my father.
If he had, the mystery might, perhaps, have been explained,

and two lives made happier. But, I don't know — God orders
all things, and there are some souls that grow meet for heaven
through much tribulation.

“Almost ten years had past since my uncle left his home,
when my grandfather received a letter announcing his return.
He would bring his bride with him, he said; and he was coming,
perhaps, to die. He had never forgotten Maud Vincent, — never
loved another as he had loved her; but he had been very ill,
very miserable, and Alice Graves had been his gentle nurse. She
was a fair, high-born English girl, and when he found that she
loved him he had given her his hand; but his malady was of
the soul, and no care or nursing could cure it.

“Then it was that my grandfather, terrified at the result of
his own schemes, called my father to his side, and told him that
by some means Allan had supposed Maud to be married, and
so had united himself to another; and he bound my father, by a
solemn promise, not to undeceive him, lest the shock should
prove fatal. All these years Maud had lived on, in her still,
quiet beauty, growing every year paler, and more spiritual.
But a sweet hope lay warm, living and earnest, in her heart;
the hope, the faith, that, some day in the far future, her betrothed
would return, and they should be reünited.

“There were costly preparations made at Oakly Hall for the
reception of the heir and his bride. The spacious parlors were
refitted, a conservatory thrown open, and a new room, added to
the west wing of the building, was arranged as a boudoir for the
Lady Alice. It was a pleasant afternoon in early May, when a
travelling-carriage bowled slowly up the gravelled walk, and
my Uncle Allan, descending from it, extended his hand to a fair

and gentle lady. You could have seen, as they ascended the
steps, however, that he leaned on her frail form for support. This
return to Oakly, a spot haunted by so many memories, proved
a shock too severe for his already enfeebled constitution, and one
from which he never recovered.

“He had been home a month already, and had not yet left the
house, when one evening he lay, a little before sunset, on a lounge
by the window of his wife's boudoir. My grandfather stood
near him, and the Lady Alice sat on a low stool by his side.
`Father,' he said, in a husky voice, `where is Maud? I must
see her before I die. Dear Maud! Alice always knew how well
I loved the Maud of my memory, the Maud of my worship, — did
you not, sweet Alice? Father, I have not long to live, and I
must see Maud before I die. I gave her up at your request,
and now you must bring her here at mine.'

Slowly the old man left the room, and in a few minutes more
Maud had been summoned, and arrived at the Hall. My grandfather
met her as she entered, and said, in a husky whisper,
`Maud Vincent, you have loved my son. He thinks you are
married to another; do not undeceive him, or his death will be
upon your head!'

“`I promise,' answered Maud, firmly and gently, as she passed
into the boudoir.

“`O, Maud, Maud, star of my heart, beauty of my dreams!'
cried the sick man, raising himself from his pillow. `Father,
Alice, you will go forth for a moment, and leave us alone.'

“What passed at that interview no one ever knew. A half-hour
afterwards, my grandfather reëntered the room. Maud had
climbed upon the couch, and there, with her arms around him,

with his head resting at last on her bosom, lay my Uncle Allan,
dead! A wild light burned in Maud Vincent's eyes; but she
clasped her hands imploringly, and said, in a low, pleading
whisper:

“`For the love of Heaven, do not waken him, sir; he sleeps, at
last. You know, sir, we are to be married, the seventeenth of
June!' Then, turning to the dead one on her breast, she
brushed back the hair from his pale, high brow, and murmured,
`Sleep, Allan; sleep, darling! Nobody shall harm thee —
Lullaby!”

“Alas, alas! poor gentle Maud Vincent! Her long-tried heart
had broke at last; she had gone mad. Long the Lady Alice
sorrowed for her lord, but not as one without hope; for, two years
after, she gave her hand to my father, and I, Nellie, am her
child. My grandfather, in his latter years, was penitent, and
grew meek and gentle as a child; but it is said remorse haunted
and stung him terribly on his death-bed. Maud Vincent is
nearly sixty years old now, but every seventeenth of June she
fails not to robe herself in bridal atire, and come to her lover's
tomb, to awaken him. Sometimes I have thought she was less
crazed than we deemed her; and that the wakening for which
she waited was to come after death, the new birth of heaven.
But look, Nellie, there she is still!”

Kate paused from the recital, and, looking out through my
tears, I could see the pale mourner, in her white robes, kneeling
still, with her lips pressed to the cold marble; and once more she
said, in the same trembling voice, so full of melancholy, “Come
forth, O my beloved! Alas! thou wilt not. Have I, then, one
year more to wait in care and sorrow? Alas, alas!”

Several years after, toward the close of a long letter from
Kate, occurred this passage:

“Poor Maud is gone at last, Nellie! The manner of her
death was, to say the least, very singular. She had seemed
wilder than usual, for some days, and we had not allowed her to
go anywhere without an attendant. It was the seventeenth of
June, and in the morning her manner was very calm and gentle.
Once more she robed herself in her bridal attire, and, shaking
down her long silver tresses, soft and curly still, she bound them
with a wreath of fresh and fragrant orange-flowers. `We are
to be married at ten,' she said, smiling, as she left the house,
`and it is eight now!'

“She went directly to the grave, and knelt there for nearly
two hours, apparently absorbed in silent prayer. At last she
said, with a wild cry of joy,

“`It is time — it is time! Come forth, O beloved! At last
Thou comest — Thou, who art the resurrection, and the life!
Welcome — thrice welcome, for I have waited many years.
Praise God, my beloved!'

“And the frightened attendant avers that she saw an angel
rise out of the grave, with wings of white. She hastened to the
house; I glanced at the clock, on the mantel; it was five minutes
after ten, and, when we reached the grave, Poor Maud was
dead!”