 | This, that and the other |  |
KATE LYNN'S BRIDAL.
A STORY OF THE FIRST OF MAY.
In commencing a household tale of our quiet little village, let
me warn the reader to expect no highly-wrought dreams of
poetry or romance. The quiet development of a character formed
amid the woods and glens of New England is the most I can
promise him.
Kate Lynn was no beauty, after the type which poets and
painters have dreamed and pictured. Indeed, by the side of
Blanche Ingram, she would have been called quite plain, and
Mistress Genevra Fanshawe would have annihilated her pretensions
altogether. Her father, Doctor Francis Lynn, was a kind,
noble, good-hearted man, — a physician of the old school, and,
sooth to say, he lost no more lives by his adherence to system
than he saved by his quiet benevolence and more than fatherly
care. His house had been a widower's mansion for several years
before my acquaintance with the beautiful village of Ryefield;
but I had heard many a tale of a gentle, sweet-voiced woman,
who used to wander over hill and meadow-land by his side, and
who closed her blue eyes at last, in a dreamless sleep, with her
head lying on his breast. At the time our story opens, Kate
Lynn was a graceful girl of nineteen, as blithe and merry as
the wild fawn in a Western forest. Her complexion was
pure a soul as ever shrined itself in a human temple.
She looked almost beautiful sometimes, with the crimson rosebuds
knotted in the heavy braids of her raven hair; but her
features were far from regular, and you would have been as
much puzzled to find a natural rank for her loveliness, as a connoisseur
who should attempt to criticize, by classic rules, the
anomalous, half-barbaric, and yet tasteful, architecture of some
of our modern buildings.
Such a treasure of a house-wife as was our Kate, — so exact, so
neat, with the clean cloth always spread on her bright, mahogany
table, at just such an hour, the napkins looking like full-blown
white lilies in their tasteful rings, and the fresh fruit bedded
thick in green and clustering leaves!
Such a picture of comfort as was her snug little parlor, of an
evening, — the bright fire burning in the polished grate; the
easy-chair drawn up before it; the gay, tasteful slippers, embroidered
by Kate's own white fingers; and, sweeter, fairer
than all, our tiny little Kate herself, perched on a low stool at
the window, listening, as it seemed, with heart and eyes, as well
as ears, for her father's well-known footsteps upon the gravelwalk.
Kate had a sister — a fair, graceful girl, whom every one
called “sweet Lizzie Lynn.” She was just fifteen when our
story opens, and the gayest, merriest, and, withal, the prettiest
little sprite you could meet between Maine and Louisiana.
Kate Lynn was scarcely ten years old when her dying mother
had placed the little Lizzie's hand in hers. “Kate,” whispered
the dying woman, “you are older than Lizzie; it may be in your
that you will give her, as far as may be, a mother's love; that
you will think no grief too great to shield her path from sadness.”
And Kate Lynn gave that solemn pledge, kneeling at the side
of the bed, with the deep eyes of the dying looking into her own,
and the grief-waves swelling and choking the young life in her
little heart, till it seemed as if mother and child might be fain to
rest them in the same grave. There are those who would
think this a strange promise to be exacted from a child of ten;
but Mrs. Lynn had read those young hearts, and she knew her
children well.
It may be that the little Lizzie was the dearest, on the principle
that we become most strongly attached to those who require
our protection, for their very weakness; but in the mother's love
for her black-eyed Kate was blended a strong commingling of
respect. Already had the child begun to make manifest the
strength that was in her, — strength of will, and strength of
love, — and Mrs. Lynn felt that she was trusting her youngest
darling to no broken reed, when she confided her to the love and
care of her elder sister Kate.
When the sod was dropped upon her mother's coffin, no tears
fell from Kate Lynn's dark eyes, no cry escaped from her pallid
lips; only from her struggling heart burst one sob, — so low, so
deep, it seemed more like a moan, — and then she was hushed,
and still, and very calm. She drew the little Lizzie to her
breast, and in that hour, amid the throes of her orphan sorrow,
was born in Kate Lynn's heart a love than which no
mother's tenderness was ever deeper, or more enduring, — a love
which was destined to exert an influence upon her whole future.
Kate had grown up at home, educated by her father's own
care, thoroughly, but by no means fashionably. Other advantages
were at her command, had she chosen; but those, she said,
would be quite enough for her, and “there would be no one to
care for papa” if she were gone. So she struggled on, mindful
of his lightest wish, caring for his most trifling needs, guarding
Lizzie from every touch of care or sorrow, and gleaning, meanwhile,
many a page of philosophy from the ponderous tomes of
those strange old writers, half sages, half seers; many a gem of
sparkling song from quaint old poets; and treasuring in the cloisters
of her pure young heart every strange and mystic voice of
fount and woodland.
But Lizzie, strange as it may seem, was most decidedly the
favorite of good Dr. Lynn. Perhaps it was her beauty, — singular
in its power of fascination, even in her infancy. Many a
stranger paused to gaze for a moment on the graceful child,
with her clear blue eyes, and the long tresses falling like a
shower of sunlight over her white robes. What wonder, then,
that this beauty should have been all-powerful at home, joined,
as it was, to a voice and manner the sweetest in the world, and a
disposition affectionate even in its unchecked wilfulness.
No home education was good enough for Lizzie! Hard as it
was for Kate to part with her, not for worlds would she have
placed her wishes in even momentary opposition with what she
believed to be for her sister's best interest. And so, for three
years previous to the opening of our tale, Lizzie, now a fair
“young lady” of fifteen, had been a pupil at a fashionable
boarding-school in a distant city.
Vine Cottage (the pleasant home of good Dr. Lynn) had
it to our readers, when its solitude was enlivened by Stanley
Grayson, the handsomest of medical students. He had become
almost like a brother to our darling Kate, whom he seemed to
deem the very impersonation of all womanly loveliness. I said
almost like a brother. I am going to tell you how he proved
there was a shade's difference on the first of May, on which our
story opens.
For a whole three weeks before this eventful first of May, all
Ryefield had been in a state of fermentation, of which only a
country village is capable. Many a kitchen had borne witness
to the solemnization of certain mysterious culinary rites, by which
round, honest-looking cakes were made incontinently to ingulf
the hearts of raisins and sweetmeats; while cream turned pale
with the discovery that it was freezing up in the very glow of the
spring sunshine; and good, motherly hens looked with the most
rueful faces on great piles of broken egg-shells.
The one milliner's shop, too, — O, such consultations as were
holden there, such borrowings of patterns, and furbishing of bonnets,
— such busy needles, seeming to glow and brighten in the
light of smiling faces!
The young men wore a look of unusual importance, and many
a smart cane and new hat made its appearance in the village
store, only to be smuggled into obscure home-nooks by these
modern Mercuries.
The truth was, a grand picnic was to be holden in the old oak
grove, and not a pretty girl in Ryefield but went to sleep with an
earnest wish and a half-prayer for sunshine and blue skies on
this long-looked-for May morning.
The wished-for day came at last, as at last every day must
come, whether it be watched and longed for by bright eyes or
dreaded by fond hearts, clinging to life and love, and waking
to find themselves one day nearer change and death. Surely
never was blue sky so very blue, or green fields so smooth and
soft and smiling. And surely never were young faces so fair, so
full of all the charm of refined friendliness!
The queen for the day was a proud, stately-looking beauty.
There was a world of command in her firm step, and in every
gesture of that small, white hand. A more than regal pride
flashed in her full, dark eye, and the crown of the Bourbons
never rested above a brow more noble. Others were there, too,
young and passing fair; but I missed one face, dearer than all to
me. Hush! She was coming. Kate Lynn was by my side at
last, and with her the handsome Stanley Grayson.
It struck me, as I looked on him, that I had never seen a more
perfect type of manly beauty. His hair was auburn, with a rich
tint of gold, and now, as he stood in the sunlight, it seemed all
a-glow. His whole face beamed, and the classical contour of his
lower features struck me as it had never done before.
The forehead was broad and full; the large, laughing hazel
eyes were what the Scotch call bonny; they had a bold, fearless,
but quite charming expression, in which, however, was blended a
certain something, which, against one's will, conveyed to the
mind a faint sense of insecurity. This something was deepened
in its tendency by the mouth and chin, certainly most beautiful
in themselves, but paining you, as it were, by their very
beauty,— or, perhaps, in spite of it, — with a vague feeling that it
were well not to trust too deeply in Stanley Grayson's power of
you, because it always lurked there, without any ostensible
cause. But, after all, he was strangely handsome; and so
thought Kate Lynn, if one could judge by the unwonted light in
her bright black eyes.
Kate was certainly a sweet girl in holiday costume. Her
dress of simple white muslin contrasted beautifully with the
clear olive of her complexion; and the quaker-like simplicity of
her black braids was sufficiently relieved by the crimson rosebuds
and green leaves which nestled there as if at home.
The day passed very pleasantly, the collation was a chef
d'œuvre, and the blue sky smiled upon fair young faces, radiant
with the joy of youth, which, when once gone, comes back, alas!
never again.
It was towards the close of the afternoon when Kate Lynn
found herself quite alone with the handsome young physician.
Over them was the blue sky and the bright sun, but the rays fell
upon them with a tempered warmth, through broad canopies of
thick oak boughs; the moss was green and soft beneath them,
and warmer, brighter than all, grew the blush on Kate Lynn's
fair cheek, as the young man threw himself on the grass beside
her, and pressed her small hand to his lips.
“So, Katie, little one,” he whispered, “you think you love me
just like a brother, do you?
“Why don't you speak, dear child? Why, how you 're blushing!
Ah, Katie, darling!” — and he stole his arm about her
waist. “No, my little Kate, you don't love me like a brother;
you love me as I love you, far more than that; and by and by
you 'll be my little wife, won't you? Nay, Kate, don't weep so;
before, — I would have you all mine. Can't you love me,
Katie?” O, how smiles, tears and blushes, struggled for the
mastery over poor Katie's face, as she answered,
“Yes, sir; yes, Mr. Grayson, you know I love you very much
indeed.”
“No, no, little one; that won't do. Not Mr. Grayson; — say,
`Stanley, I love you!'”
“Well, then, `Stanley, I love you;' will that do?” and suddenly
Katie's manner regained all its accustomed archness and
naïveté. O, how bright her eyes were when she again joined our
circle, as Stanley Grayson's betrothed! She was always womanly,
and her deep joy showed itself only in the light in her eyes, and
the new music-tone which blent with her clear, ringing laugh,
causing it fairly to swell out its exultation upon the air. I suppose
every one has heard such laughs; but they only come from
very young hearts, in the first flush of that wild joy, which time
must chasten, if it does not wholly take away.
I found, a few days since, some leaves from Katie's diary, written
in those sunny days, and I will insert them here. She was
not romantic, not at all; but, with her mother sleeping beneath
the grave-yard turf, and her only sister rather a child than a
companion, she had had few friends with whom to share the
dreams and hopes which make their phantom light and shade in
every human heart, not quite of the earth, earthy. This was
why, since first her childish fingers had learned to guide a pen,
Kate had written out fresh leaves from her inner life; making
confidential leagues with reams of clear, white paper, bound up
in Russia leather. Of those leaves I have but few; most were
the few that remain, the first was written the day after her
betrothal, and the light of her pure young love seems to come
down through the long lapse of years, and make a halo round the
delicate characters of her clear Italian hand-writing.
“Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley
Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into
mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great,
unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by
the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's
grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could
have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love?
“How strange it seemed last night, when we were quietly at
home, after all the excitement of the day, to have him taking
care of me so tenderly! We had had the stove carried away at
house-cleaning time, and the air was cold. He saw I shivered,
and said I must be wrapped up; but when I would have gone
after my shawl, he stopped me, and went himself. How carefully
he folded it around me! and when I placed my hands in his
to thank him, he raised them to his lips, but presently gathered
me, hands, shawl and all, to his heart, and sat down with me in
his arms, at the window, in the moonlight.
“O, what a long time we sat there! I seemed to cling to
him, and look up to him so trustfully, and he, — O, I know he
loves me!
“There is no doubt, no distrust. I know he will be mine only
till his life shall end.
“This morning I really seemed to be growing pretty, for I
was so happy that my face was fairly radiant; as I looked in the
glass, my black eyes sparkled, and I thought, as I buttoned my
simple gingham morning-dress, nothing else ever became me so
finely. Stanley must have thought so too, for he put his hand
upon my head, and, smoothing back my hair, whispered, `Ah
Katie, you must n't grow handsome so fast, or I 'll be afraid of
you, by and by, my gypsy queen.' I don't wonder he calls me
gypsy; for I 'm sure I look like it, with my brown face and
straight black hair.
“O, how often I wished for Lizzie's blue eyes, and golden curls!
but I don't seem to mind them now; for, brown and small and
homely as I am, Stanley loves me! I declare, here I 've sat
writing in the sunshine till dinner-time. Betty never did set
things right without me, and I must go help her. What a sunshine!
I can't believe the world was ever half so bright before!”
“A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley
says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September
fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as
to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have
only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going
to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear,
though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of
my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the
tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair,
and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It
been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen,
a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for
the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without
me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul,
and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and
she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa?
Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would
she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful?
“Down, selfish heart of mine! The truth must be uttered. I
find it seared upon my soul. Stanley is dearer to me now than
all things earthly!”
“O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband
is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time
since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so
happy!
“There are such webs and webs of cloth to be made up! All
the forenoon I am cutting and planning things, and seeing to
Betty; and in the afternoon Stanley usually contrives to stay
at home, and read to me, while I work. Why, I never knew
before what a little ignoramus I am, until I saw how much he
knew. But, then, I am improving; I understand better when he
reads to me, and I seem to grow wiser under his teaching. He
says I am gifted naturally. I wonder if I am! I never thought
of it before. I 've always been content to love what was beautiful
in others, without sounding the depths of my own spirit, to
see whether pearls lay sleeping beneath the waves.
“Dear me! What am I saying? I wonder if Stanley would n't
call that a simile! Whoever thought cotton cloth was so pretty
a sight as it looks to me now — all these sheets and towels spread
out so nicely on the grass to dry, and all so prettily marked, too,
with my new name that is to be — `Kate Grayson!' Stanley
would have it so. He was to mark them, because he writes so
well; and he went and put that name on, mischievous fellow!
“It does n't seem as if I had any right to them. Can it be
that will be my name, some time? I suppose so, and yet it does n't
seem the least in the world natural. I wonder if it 's wicked to
be glad Stanley is an orphan! I am afraid it is, and yet I don't
know why it should be; for God took his parents away, and it
is n't wicked to say God's will be done. It seems a thought so
dear, so precious, that there is not one heart on earth which can
come between Stanley's and mine! — that there is no one else very
near or dear to him, and he can give me all his love!
“Somehow it seems to blend a religious ecstasy with my happiness.
I feel that I am all he has, and in my heart wells up a
prayer that God will help me to be a good angel, guarding his
life.
“He called me his guardian angel, once. Somehow it made my
heart thrill so with joy, that it choked me. I could not bear it.
I bade him not to call me so, for I was n't good, I was no angel;
and he has not said it since. I have been thinking whether,
some time, when I am his wife, — when I strive earnestly, as God
knows I will, to make his life bright and happy, — he will not come
to me in the twilight, and put his arms about me, with the tears
swimming in his eyes, and whisper, `My life's good angel — my
wife!'
“My wife! How sweet those words will sound from him! He
called me so once, the other day; but it frightened me, it seemed
so unreal, the foretaste of a happiness which, alas for it! may
never come!
“Hush! I hear the carriage. That is he, home again, so soon,
smiling at me, and sending me kisses through the window, as he
unfastens his horses. I must hurry this out of sight, for I would
not have him know what a silly child I am.”
“O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes,
hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor
Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a
long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul
seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have
thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much
time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching
me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How
proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased
with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to
put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so
well.
“Papa is asleep in his drowsy-looking easy-chair; Betty is
burning her face over the kitchen-fire; and I, Kate Lynn, — Kate
Grayson that is to be, — sit here writing. Heigho! I wish
Lizzie would come. Dear child! I had Betty make those nice
little cakes to-night, which she loves so much; and I put beside
Nonsense! what a silly girl I am! I am forgetting that Lizzie
is a miss of fifteen now. O dear, my child Lizzie! The stage
is so late to-night; but is n't that the horn?”
“Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried
down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was
raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the
door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was
papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark;
and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he
brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her
down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak,
and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held
her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa
took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her,
she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley,
who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her
perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw
portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily.
“`I see, little lady!' he exclaimed, playfully, `you are wondering
who I am, and what earthly business I had to be lifting
you from the stage, and cheating your good father out of so
many kisses that it would be sheer robbery, if there were n't
enough left on those pouting little lips. Well, it 's no great loss,
after all, my blue-eyed fairy! for I 'm no less a person than your
brother-in-law that is to be, Stanley Grayson.'
“Lizzie seemed quite shy of him at first; but they are getting
on together nicely now. Papa has bought Lizzie such a handsome
little pony, and Stanley is teaching her to ride. They are
gone now for a long ride over the hills. How pretty the dear
child looked, as she cantered away, in her deep-blue riding-dress.
Sweet Lizzie! Even Stanley says she is the prettiest person he
ever saw. I wonder if it was envy I felt when he said that! I
guess not, for I 'm sure I want him to love her; but somehow,
of late, the old longing has come back again, for Lizzie's blue
eyes and golden curls.”
“I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long
rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for
there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me
just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy,
Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so
busy — nothing about our marriage.
“I mentioned it once, and he seemed hurt — almost angry.
We have no more of those quiet little talks about our future, when
I shall be all his own. He is good still, but so different! The
other night, — it was a little thing, — but we went to walk, and
neither Lizzie nor I put anything over us. The air was colder
than we thought, and Stanley exclaimed, `Why, Kate, we must
not let our little fairy, here, go without a shawl. She needs so
much care, the baby!' And, springing lightly over the fence,
he ran back and brought a shawl for Lizzie, but none for me. I
needed one as much as she, but pride would not let me speak of
it; and I would not go back myself to fetch one, lest it should
and stiff-neck, I was punished for my folly and my carelessness.
“At first, Lizzie used to kiss me, and tell me how pleased she
was that she was going to have such a dear, noble brother-in-law.
But she never mentions it now; and I, too, have ceased
alluding to it, because it makes her look pained. And yet,
she surely does n't dislike him, for she goes to ride with him
every day, and every day comes back looking more sparklingly
beautiful; though somehow she seems growing thinner and
slighter.
“It cannot be — but no, I will not even think of it. Stanley is
true — true as steel; and Lizzie, sweet child, never thought of
love in her life. God bless them! How I love them both!”
“Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how
changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had
a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing
in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds
in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I
could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made
beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and
sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward.
Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all
was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept
suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was
bringing us.
“There was a moment of agony. Shrieks and groans rose
Rain-clouds swept over us, big with bitter, bursting tears; and
then my boat went down!
`In the billows' joyous dash of death went down.'
“There was night, and darkness, and every soul perished —
every soul but me. The waves took from me love, faith, every
joy of hope or memory, then dashed me upon the rocks, and
left me — Life!
“How I longed for death! My soul beat its prison-bars in
vain, but it came not. I wonder I can write my own story so
calmly. I suppose it is because I have no more hope, no more
fears, because all the joy and life have been ground out of my
heart, and I only stay now, — I do not live!
“Let me see. It was night before last. I wrote here until the
light faded, and then I went into the long arbor in the garden,
to watch the sun go down. O, what a beautiful sight it was! —
such clouds of rose, and gold, and crimson, and anon one of pure,
snowy white, as if an angel's wing had cleft the gorgeous canopy
to pave the blue with glorious stars, those `things which look
as if they would be suns but durst not.' I felt my heart swelling
with a quick, exultant sense of life. A dancing flame
seemed to leap up in it, as when a candle flickers brightly in its
socket, just before it goes out. At last, `the stars, the forget-me-nots
of the angels,' rose up, sweet, and pale, and silent;
and, going into the further end of the arbor, apart from observation,
I threw myself down to dream. All things seemed to
love me. The jasmine drooped downward, and laid its long
green fingers on my brow, softly, like the touch of a mother's
flowers; and my thoughts
Of life, and beauty, and sweet hope, and passion's golden prime.'
I heard horses' feet at last, and then steps approaching the
arbor. I was happy enough to be playful; and I said, `I will
keep still, and let them look for me.'
“But it seemed I was not the object of their search. The
moon shone on them full and bright, but I was in the shadow;
and I saw Stanley, my Stanley, take Lizzie to his heart, and
press his lips to hers. It may have been wrong in me to
remain concealed; but who shall blame me?
“More than my life hung upon that one moment, and I could
not stir! The first words that fell upon my ear were —
“`Yes, yes, Lizzie, I know it — I know it is sin. But
I cannot, cannot help it. O, Lizzie, I worship you so
madly!'
“`But Kate, Stanley?'
“`Yes, Lizzie, I know it; I know I am a brute; I hate myself:
but Kate does not, cannot love as we do. I could bear it
for myself; but you, Lizzie, to know how you love me, — to see
you wasting away, and feel that I have done it, — sweetest,
dearest, purest! By all the saints, you must be mine!'
“`Can I?'
“And I could almost see my sister tremble as she spoke.
“`O, Lizzie, I do not know. Kate is so good — she might
release me; but how can I ask it? I remember how solemnly
our vows were plighted before God. Kate is all she was
How can I tell her that I am fickle, and a villain?'
“`Fickle, Stanley?'
“`Well, dearest, not that exactly, for I never loved Katie
as I love you; but I have been so hasty, so wrong! Why
could I not have waited till you came home? Why was
I so mad as to dream I loved her, other than as a brother
might?'
“`O, cruel, cruel!' I gasped, in my desolate corner—`cruel,
even to take away the joy of thinking that you once loved me!'
And the weight of woe swept over me so wildly, that, for the
first time in my life, I fainted. When I recovered, the moon
was shining clear and full; she had reached her zenith. The
birds were still, the bower was deserted, and over all rested the
strange hush and silence of midnight.
“For a time I could remember nothing. There was a dull,
heavy pain pressing intolerably upon my forehead; but it
seemed as if I had awoke after the nightmare, and was trembling
to the remembered horrors of some fearful dream. Gradually
sense and memory came back to me. I rose and crept
toward the house, clinging for support, as I passed, to the vines
and shrubs along my path. Very silently I stole up stairs,
and entered our room — Lizzie's and mine.
“She lay there sleeping, and I thought that I had never seen
her look so beautiful. Her white arms were tossed above
her head; her cheeks were fairly crimson, and over them
drooped her long, golden lashes, heavy with round, sparkling
tears. Poor, innocent, motherless little lamb! How my heart
of opposing my happiness to hers! And yet the struggle was a
fierce one. I knelt down, and drew Lizzie's head to my bosom,
very gently, lest I should waken her. I thought of all the past,
of the promise I had made to my dying mother; and then I
prayed, still holding Lizzie on my breast. I never prayed so
before. It was a prayer in my own fashion, but very earnest,
and I think very effective. I seemed to come near to a
Great Spirit, and to feel my heart kindling with the light from
the divine eyes looking into it. I knelt there till the moon
went out, and the dawn, in her gray robes, had stolen softly up
the cloud-stairs of the east, and quenched, with rosy fingers, the
stars hanging there, pale and wan, like half-exhausted lamps.
Then I rose, and, putting Lizzie gently back upon the pillow, I
pressed one kiss, long and earnest, on her pure brow, and,
with trembling fingers, arranged my somewhat disordered hair.
As I stepped to the mirror, I caught a glimpse of a face so
pale, so haggard, that it startled even myself; but I hurried
down into the garden, and walked to and fro, till the cool, fresh
air of the morning had somewhat revived me.
“At last I heard a hasty step, and in an instant Stanley was
by my side. His face bore the traces of great care and weariness,
and all my love for him rushed up to my heart with tenfold
strength. O, how I pitied him — far, far more than myself!
I knew his proud heart, and his strong sense of right; and
felt that, whatsoever way he turned, there was bitter suffering
before him. With but the one wish strong in my heart, of
sparing him from pain, at whatever cost to myself, I spoke
hurriedly:
“`Stanley, I have been thinking that I cannot leave my
father. Will you release me from our engagement? I don't
think we are suited to each other, and my duty lies elsewhere.'
“He looked surprised, even pained. I could see, too, that his
pride was wounded; and yet, spite of himself, an expression
of instant joy and relief danced into his fine eyes; but he merely
said,
“`Ah, Katie, you never loved me!'
“Somehow I could not bear that; it overthrew all my resolves
of silence and caution, and I said, boldly,
“`I cannot tell, Stanley — I think I have loved you; but it
may be not as Lizzie does. I heard all, last night. I was sitting
in the arbor, and a spell was on me that I could not stir; and,
Stanley, Lizzie is yours. Please don't thank me; I could not
bear that just yet. I do it, too, more for Lizzie's sake — the
poor child! Stanley, you will be my brother, and I 'll try and
be a good sister. Go and tell Lizzie, and make her happy, as
I shall be, when I see you both smile again.'
“Stanley heard me through, and then, kneeling upon the ground
beside me, he pressed my hand again and again to his lips.
“`O, Kate,' he exclaimed, `I ought not to marry you — I
am not worthy of you. I should feel as if my wife were an
angel, rather than a woman. No one else was ever half so
good, Kate; and God will make you happy! But, Kate, your
father! —'
“And he rose and stood beside me.
“`I have thought of that, Stanley, and I will speak to him.
I am essential to his comfort now, and he 'll soon be glad that
darling Lizzie is to be so happy!'
“I had said all I could, and I hurried in. At breakfast we all
met again. I saw Stanley had told Lizzie, for she looked at
me once or twice with a glance of inexpressible tenderness, in
some sense blended with compassion; but when she turned her
blue eyes on Stanley, her young face was fairly radiant with
happiness. I forced myself to make the tea for papa, and pour
coffee for them, laughing and talking merrily the while, lest
their joy should be clouded; but all the time I could feel how
my own heart was struggling, choking, in black, bitter waves
of trouble.
“After breakfast I detained papa, and told him, very simply,
that Lizzie and Stanley had concluded they could love each
other, and, if he would give them his blessing, they would marry,
and let me stay at home to care for him. For a moment, he
looked at me sharply, as if to read my very heart; but I would
not let him see it. I turned my eyes away, and, moving
to the flower-stand, commenced picking the withered leaves off
my monthly rose-bush.
“`Kate,' said my father, at length, speaking quickly, `do
you like this plan? Are you quite in earnest?'
“`Yes, sir, quite,' I answered; for I could not have told him
what was in my heart, and I wished to complete the arrangement
with as few words as possible.
“`I hope Stanley is n't giving you up for Lizzie, against your
will?'
“`No, sir; I proposed the measure first myself. I saw that
Lizzie loved Stanley, and would not be happy without him; and I
me stay. You won't send me away, will you, dear, dear father?'
and, going up to him, I caught his good, honest hand, and raised
it to my lips.
“`Send you away! no, indeed! but I don't understand it, at
all. You are a good girl, Katie, a comfort to your old father,
and always were. You may give the children my blessing.'
And he put his hand upon my head, and kissed me with unwonted
tenderness, as he left the house.
“I found `the children' in the arbor which had witnessed the
declaration of their love. I gave them my father's blessing, and
Lizzie threw her arms round my neck, and cried, `O, Kate,
God will bless you! no mother could have loved me more!
Sister, dear sister, you have never suffered me to be an orphan!'
“The words thrilled me; once more they recalled my promise
to my mother. Had I not kept it well? was I not keeping it, at
God only knew what cost to myself? Stanley pressed my hand
to his lips, and, saying some pleasant word, I turned away. I
paused for a moment, and heard Stanley say, `You see, Lizzie,
Kate never loved me. I believe she is glad to be free once
more; and I — O, Lizzie, my bride, my beautiful!”
“Beautiful! yes, that was it; Lizzie was beautiful! If I
had been, — but no matter. I must n't write any more now.
I have told the events; the feelings must not be written here!”
“A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know
why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so
What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly
on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects
hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I
never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature
had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her
lover.
“But why do I write of the world around me, rather than of
the world within me? of the external, rather than the internal?
“It must be because I have no internal world now. It is as
if a simoon had swept over the fields of my heart, and left them
barren and desolate. I hope for nothing, and I fear nothing.
That is, I hope for nothing but heaven, and I fear nothing but sin.
Alas for poor, weak human nature, that it cannot content itself
with these visions of eternal glory! It will go pining for that love,
human and earthly, for which I look no more. I am peculiar, it
may be, but it is not possible for me to love more than once.
The dreams I have dreamed I can never dream over again, nor
do I wish it; I have locked them up, like priceless jewels, in the
casket of memory, and perhaps, by and by, long years from now,
when I have grown older and stronger, and these locks are gray,
I can put them back from my forehead, and be calm. Then, in
some twilight hour of those other years, I can unlock this casket,
and look once more on the jewels and precious stones that were
twined round the brow of my youth.
“Nine days more, and Lizzie will be a bride, a happy bride;
for how can his wife be otherwise? They wish me to be bridesmaid,
and I have consented; it will be hard, but I would not
that word or deed of mine should jar upon their happiness.
“Lizzie is very thoughtless, poor little thing! but very good
and pure; I hope he will cherish her as she deserves. She has
never been used to care; even the preparations for her bridal I
have taken upon myself. She has ridden and walked with
Stanley, and I have sewed on sheets and pillow-cases, and bridal
robes. I was glad to have it left to me, for I should have been
wretched had I not been busy; even as it is, I fear I have
repined sometimes, — but it must not be. Here they come, cantering
along; Lizzie's face is bright with happiness, and Stanley is
looking on her with — O! such fond, husband-like pride! I
will go and meet them!”
“Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever
before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her
white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer
than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled
during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was
the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist.
When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I
seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied
in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their
happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me,
after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage.
He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes,
whispered,
“`O, Kate, I am so happy, and you have done it! God bless
you!' And he kissed my brow, and sprang into the carriage.
“O, how those words seem to ring in my ears yet, `You have
done it!' Yes, I had done it! How could I complain? I had
voluntarily given him up; he was my brother now, and I must
give him only a sister's love! Well, it is past; I am glad it is
over. I have no longer anything to dread; I don't think it is
best to write of what my feelings are, or my hopes might have
been; I must be so busy as to give myself no time to be miserable.”
A year passed, and no more leaves were written in Katie's
diary. She seemed to feel it a sin even to think of bygones,
much more to write of them; and her life was made up of the past,
— she had no present and no future. I mean by this that she
looked forward to nothing with hope, and the calm sea of
her life was undisturbed by incident or passion. Perhaps I
ought to except Lizzie's visits; for the young wife came home
several times, and sometimes spent a week or two at Vine Cottage.
Once or twice Stanley remained with her, but usually he
left her there, and came after her when she was ready to return.
It is very true that lovers, during the season of courtship, for
the most part, learn very little of each other's real character.
Any one who had known thoroughly Stanley and Lizzie Grayson
would have trembled for their chance of happiness. Lizzie was,
indeed, guileless and affectionate, but her mind had no great
depth. Accustomed, from childhood, to be contradicted in
nothing, her will was strong and determined, though she was
guided almost entirely by impulse, instead of judgment. Naturally
superficial; and she assumed the ties of a wife without the faintest
idea of discharging the duties. I said she was naturally very
affectionate; I should have added, as far as affection is demonstrable
by kisses and caresses; but her predominant feeling was
a strong under-current of selfishness, which, though unseen, like
the corner-stone of a building, formed the real basis to all her
actions. As a child, her father and sister had loved her too
fondly, and admired her too intensely ever to check her in her
heedless pursuit of self-gratification. During the period of courtship
and betrothal, Stanley had been so intoxicated with her
beauty as to make all her whims his own; and, during the honey-moon,
though he sometimes differed with her in opinion, one of
her brilliant smiles would usually prove irresistible, carry her
own point, and convince her husband that he was, or ought to be,
the happiest man in the universe. But Stanley's character,
though in some respects the exact counterpart of his wife's, was
in others so radically different, as to make you wonder what
could possibly have been the harmonizing medium to have drawn
them together.
The truth was, Stanley had not thought of Lizzie so much as
his wife, — a woman, happy, indeed, as every true woman must
be with the man she loves, but yet tried ofttimes, and coming
from the furnace with a character beautified and made purer by
suffering; he had dreamed of her as a beautiful bride, a being
whom he would be proud to hear called by his name; whom he
could introduce to his friends, and then go home claiming this peerless
object of the world's admiration as his own. It was his
mistake that he had not looked further — that the white satin and
it was a mistake into which half the people in the world have
fallen, and will continue to fall, until the world's end.
Stanley was an orphan, and, like his wife, had very early
learned the omnipotence of his own will; he had been accustomed
to submit to no one, and to make few, if any, sacrifices in
those little things in which sacrifices are so essential to the daily
comfort of life. He was as thorough as Lizzie was superficial;
he had a mathematical horror of anything like carelessness, or
want of exactness. The fondest dream of his manhood had been
an intellectual wife, one who would be able fully to share in
all his refined pleasures of taste and intellect.
And yet, during his acquaintance with Lizzie, previous to
their marriage, he had never perceived her deficiencies. She
was beautiful; she sung and played enchantingly, and talked
the prettiest of small-talk, in the sweetest and most musical
accents imaginable. He had admired, almost idolized, her
beauty; hung enraptured over her piano; and forgot, as men,
even the best and most sensible of them, will forget sometimes,
that this was not all of life.
Through the honey-moon the delusion lasted very comfortably.
It was certainly a pleasant thing to travel with Lizzie; to hear
her lively, musical exclamations of surprise at the panorama of
beauty which spread itself before them; to have the fair being
on his arm greeted with the silent homage of earnest glances,
and suspended breath. But it was another thing, when they
were settled in a house of their own, and, too late, he began to
discover his mistake. If he commenced to plead his wishes in
opposition to hers, Lizzie would have recourse to tears and hysterics,
she had been indulged at home, would, for the most part, submit.
Sometimes, when compliance seemed weak, or sinful, to his cooler
judgment, he persisted; and then a new phase in Lizzie's character
was revealed. She made her husband feel the power of her
stinging sarcasm, and her bitter reproaches. Once she alluded
to his old love for Kate, and taunted him with his perfidy; he
had broken Kate's heart, she said, by his cruelty, and now he
was breaking hers. Usually he had answered her — always gently
at first, but latterly in cold, stern words, sometimes; but this
time he said nothing, — he looked at her! There must have been
power in his look, for Lizzie trembled and sat down, clinging to
the chair for support.
Stanley was very pale, his hands were firmly closed, and his
lips cold and white as death; but he only looked at her, and went
out. Lizzie did not see him again till the next morning, and
then there was no allusion made to the past by either. Her
conscience reproached her bitterly for taunting him with a wrong
that was done only for her sake, and which he might long ago
have repented in sackcloth and ashes; and she was but too glad
to leave the subject untouched, since he did not allude to it.
Mistaken course! how can a wife ever let a wrong go unexplained,
unforgiven, when the right is hers, if she would but use
it, to hang upon her husband's neck, and plead for peace and
forgiveness, by the holy memories of olden love!
But Lizzie said nothing; and Stanley Grayson was a man
who, unasked, could never forgive a wrong, — at least, could never
forget one. The power of Lizzie's beauty was not all gone, and
very easily she might have healed the wound; but she let it
by a strict and almost forbidding courtesy and attention. But
this wore off in time, and there was no outward difference in
Stanley Grayson's behavior to his wife — at least, none that
could be perceived by a woman like Lizzie, not exactly heartless,
but frivolous and self-loving. He had accompanied her on her
first visit home after their marriage, but after that he never came
again to stay more than a few hours. I think Kate must have
suspected something of his disappointment in his wife; but she
kept her own counsel, and said nothing; throwing still more of
caressing gentleness into her manner towards Lizzie; and
seemed most anxiously trying to lighten her path by a sister's
love, united to more than a mother's care.
Three years after her marriage, Lizzie Grayson was brought
home, as it then seemed, to die. She had taken cold by going
to the first party of the season too thinly clad; and yet, though
her husband saw her health was failing, and remonstrated
earnestly, and, for him, tenderly, she had persisted during the
whole winter in an unprecedented course of gayety.
She had been home two weeks, and had been rapidly growing
worse, when one evening her husband lifted her in his arms and
sat down by the window, laying her head upon his shoulder, that
she might once more gaze forth on the glory of the April sunset.
Kate sat beside her, holding her thin white hand; and, as she
looked up in her husband's face, and then turned her eyes on her
sister, and her father, who was in his old seat by the fireplace,
a smile of content passed over her face.
“I have much to say to you, dearest Stanley,” she whispered,
“and you must let me say it now. You are so good to me, you
a sadly thoughtless, selfish child, and I have pained you often;
you forgive me all now, don't you?”
A fond pressure of the hand, and an earnest, tearfully-loving
glance, were Stanley's sole reply, and she continued,
“I was a child when you married me, Stanley, — a poor, weak,
selfish child, not fit to be a wife, — and I have been a bad one. I
am so weak I do not know, but I can't help thinking, if I were
to live longer, I would do better; I would try harder to learn
my duty, and I might make you happier, — but I do not know.
I have always loved you, Stanley; let me tell you that, now I
am dying, and you will believe it! Father, dear father, please
to come here, and kiss me!”
Dr. Lynn started quickly, and pressed his lips to his daughter's
brow; but, when he looked at her, the tears gathered in his
eyes, and he turned away sorrowful, for on her face he read that
fearful change, which no man can describe, but which goeth
before death and the grave.
“Kate — Stanley!” whispered the dying girl, very faintly;
and Stanley, entirely overpowered by the violence of his emotion,
pressed his lips to Lizzie's, and then, laying her in Kate's arms,
knelt beside her, and murmured wild and strangely earnest
words of supplication. When once more he looked on her who
had been joined to him in the strange and mystic tie of marriage,
the form was there, indeed, — the cold, still, beautiful form, —
but the light had faded from the blue eyes, the hands hung cold
and powerless by her side! — Lizzie Grayson was dead!
It was the “leafy month of June,” and Kate Lynn's twenty-fifth
birth-day. Care and sorrow had made her look even older
than that. Her cheeks were hollow, her figure thin, and amid
her jetty hair lay broad streaks of silver; and yet, Kate was as
attractive as at nineteen, and, perhaps, even more interesting. I
said as attractive; for what she had lost in color, complexion, and
symmetry of figure, she had more than gained in the calm, sweet
pensiveness of her fair face, and the holy, tender, but inexpressibly
beautiful light in her soft eyes. She had gone alone, at the
twilight, to the green and mossy bank where she had first plighted
her vows to Stanley Grayson. Sitting in the old seat, she drew
from her pocket the miniature he had given her, and gazed long
and fondly on the pictured features.
“It was the one love of life,” she murmured, at length, “the
love of life, — and he was false —”
“No, no Kate! say anything but that. Kate, my darling, —
Kate, my worship!”
Kate raised her soft, beautiful eyes, and there, on the moss
beside her, was kneeling Stanley Grayson. It was the first time
they had met since the turf was put over Lizzie's grave; and a
choking tide of old-time memories swelled Katie's heart, and
nearly stifled her.
“Kate,” he continued, speaking hurriedly, “I did love you;
as Heaven is my witness, Kate, I loved you, when, long years
ago, I knelt here by your side, — and, Kate, I never loved another!
Lizzie came home, and she was beautiful, — O, so
radiantly beautiful! — the fairest shape, I thought, my eyes ever
rested on; we were thrown much together, and she loved me, as
much as she could love; and I — I became intoxicated with
our dream, and you heard us, Katie. The next morning you
gave me up, so coldly, so calmly, that I thought you had
never loved me. I thought I was happy, for Lizzie seemed
all the fondest heart could ask, and the dream continued.
When the romance was over, and I settled down with her as
my wife, I felt the wrong then. Lizzie was a pet, a plaything,
a pretty creature; you, Kate, the noble, unselfish woman, for
whom I pined, who might have been the other half of myself.
I came home with Lizzie once, and I felt it more and
more. A passionate, wicked love for you was growing up
in my heart; or, rather, it was the old love speaking out,
haunting me, mocking me, confronting me defiantly, now that I
was the husband of another. I left you, Kate, and I kept away
from the charmed circle of your influence. True, you haunted
me everywhere; but I was better away, and I had one comfort
in the thought that your heart was light, that you had never
loved me. Lizzie was good and sweet-tempered, generally; but
she did not make me happy, for she could not understand me.
You, Kate, suited me, to the finest fibre of my being; it
seemed as if we were made for each other. At last, Lizzie died.
O, how bitterly I reproached myself, as she lay dying, that I
had not loved her better! how gladly I would have laid down
my own life that she might go forth again, free and happy, into
the beautiful earth! — but — she died. Something kept telling me
that I had killed her; that, if I had loved her better, and
guarded her more tenderly, she might have been happier, — she
might have lived! I felt as if the brand of a murderer was
upon my brow; I seemed to read scorn and hatred even in your
may be; but it has only brightened your memory, and I came
back to-night to plead with you for the old-time love. You
must hate me, Kate; you won't have me, I know you won't, —
but don't say no. If I must leave you, get up and walk away,
and say nothing; for I can't — O, Kate, I can't hear your lips
speak my doom!”
But Kate did n't get up and go away, — I guess it 's not best
for me to tell what Katie did; but, sure I am, there was a wedding
in the old country church at Ryefield, September 5th, 1843;
and that, dear readers, that was
KATE LYNN'S BRIDAL.
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