 | This, that and the other |  |
SILENCE ADAMS.
AN OLD MAN'S STORY.
“Vergiss die treuen todten nicht.”
Drop, drop, drop, — how wearily the rain falls! What spectres
are gliding downward from the weird, dream-haunted past, —
the land whose phantom memory-bells are only rung by goblins,
whose fateful halls are brooded over by midnight and solemn
silence! What shapes of glorious beauty flit through its shadowy
aisles! what calm, pale brows, what smiles bright with
the prisoned sunshine of a lifetime!
I am an old man now. The hair she used to twine lies above
my furrowed brow, like silver-tinted moonbeams; my form is
thin and bowed, and these strong arms, with which I used to fold
her, are weak and shrivelled; but the fire burns on in my heart,
— low down there it glows and sparkles, unquenched, eating
away life.
I suppose the world would call me romantic, if they could
read the old man's heart, and know that her soul keeps tryst
with mine at twilight; and that still, with the chill in my bones,
and the frost on my hair, my heart thrills, and my pulses quicken,
when I say over, low to myself, the name of Silence Adams.
It is a long time since I have heard any other speak that
name; a long time, and the dust has settled on her fair, sweet
and drew away the curtain from before a veiled
picture, and looked once more on that brow, with the clear,
brown eyes below, and the smoothly-parted brown hair above.
I turned away sorrowful, for there is a great gulf between us
now; not death only, but time and change. I am an old man
now; and she, my one love, went to sleep beneath the roses, with
the sunshine of youth bright and warm upon her brow.
I don't know where it was I first saw Silence Adams. Her
memory is linked with my infancy, and yet I was by many
years the oldest. But I think some angel figure, some guardian
face, with pure, pale brow, and clustering curls, — her curls, —
must have guarded my infancy, and, as I grew toward boyhood,
this angel came on earth, came among mortals, and they called
her Silence Adams.
No other name could have been so appropriate, she was so shy,
so pale, so spiritual. There seemed a hush and stillness to brood
all about her. Her home, even, was quiet as the Ghost's Walk,
at Dedlock Hall. It was a calm, fair spot, — one of those
old family mansions, which look as if they had stood still for
centuries. The trees were all large, and gnarled, and heavy,
and very old.
The grass was green and soft as a carpet for the fairies, and
the house looked like a fancy some poet-painter had woven out
of the clouds at twilight. The Gothic windows were quaintly
set in their deep embrasures; the clapboards were gray with
moss, or green with ivy; the roofs and gables were high and
steep; and over all a tall, straight chimney towered up, steeple
nod and look down frowningly.
Inside, the mansion was even more appropriate, in seeming, for
the name and character of its goddess. The furniture was all
quaint and old, but in the most careful state of preservation.
The carpets were of dark, rich colors, over which the sunshine
fell, through the latticed windows, with a tempered radiance.
The chairs were of solid mahogany, with the fantastically-wrought
cushions of our grandmothers' days.
The tables loomed up, in a kind of polished grandeur, so dark,
and smooth, and glossy, as readily to inspire a child with a kind
of “you must not touch it” feeling; and even the Canary in its
gilded cage was a civil, well-behaved Canary, and never sang
when there were visitors.
I can well remember the kind of awe with which I used to be
inspired, as I stole, with noiseless footfall, into the halls of Oakwood,
in my early boyhood, — the broad, spacious drawing-room,
the curiously-carved furniture, and, more than all, the two old
people who sat on either side of the broad chimney-piece.
I hardly think I ever imagined that they were not as much
part and parcel of the furniture at Oakwood Hall as the chairs
and tables. Indeed, I am impressed with a conviction that an
order to the upholsterer, had I been reproducing Oakwood,
would have commenced much in this wise:
“Please send me two very nice old people, with corresponding
arm-chairs. Let the lady be fair and neat, with a black silk
gown, and smooth muslin neckerchief. Let the crown of her
cap be high and stiff, and the silver hair be smooth upon her
forehead.
“Let the old gentleman's wig be nicely powdered, make his
knee-buckles the brightest in the world, and place beside him an
ivory-headed cane.”
Such was the home where Silence Adams lived with her grandparents,
— at least, such it rises to my memory's eye. I cannot
remember when I commenced to love her; only, as I have said,
she, or one like her, watched over me in infancy, and I think the
love must have been born with me.
I used to go stealing into Oakwood every night at sunset, to
make my best bow to the old people, and then seek Silence in her
favorite retreat, the garden. This latter place partook strongly
of the general character of the estate. The trees were as still,
and proper, and sober, as old people at church-time. The very
flowers seemed to have been selected with an eye to good behavior.
There were the sedate and matronly sun-flowers; good
old-fashioned four-o'clocks, regular in their hours as an old-maid's
tea-drinking; quiet lilies of the valley, mignonette, and large,
bright-eyed English violets. There were no flaunting dahlias, no
gaudy tulips, in Oakwood garden.
The flowers were all in the highest degree respectable; and, if
they had been going to have a dance, it would have been the
stately minuet of Queen Elizabeth, and not by any possibility the
detestable polka and Schottishe, that so vulgarize our modern
drawing-rooms.
In the midst of this garden was a kind of summer-house, embowered
with roses. Here Silence was wont to spend the long,
warm summer. Here she lived and dreamed. On the little
rustic table lay her guitar, her work-box, and a few books I had
given her.
Hither it was that I bent my steps one summer evening, when
Silence Adams had grown up, from a child, into a calm, quiet,
beautiful maiden of fifteen. I seemed, however, to look upon
her as a child still, for I was six years her senior; and yet, I remember,
my heart fluttered a little, as I caught the gleam of her
white robe floating out of the little summer-house.
I went in and sat down by her side, lightly running my fingers
over her guitar.
I had just graduated from college, and was soon to leave for a
tour on the continent. I had brought Silence a little ring, and
a golden cross, to wear for my sake when I was far away, and I
had come to give them to her.
I entered very quietly, so quietly that Silence did not look up.
Her small white hands were clasped over her pure face, and
through them tears were trickling, one by one. I went up to her,
and, putting my arm about her waist, whispered, “Silence —
dear little Silence!”
Something in my manner, perhaps my addressing her as the
little child I had always considered her, reässured the weeping
girl; and when I took her hands from her face, she looked up, and
the calm, truthful eyes beamed on me, through their tears, with
an expression I shall never forget, until the grass grows green
above my heart.
That moment I learned, for the first time, that I loved Silence
Adams, as a man should love the elect woman, whom he chooses,
from among all others, to walk with him through life, till death.
Man as I believed myself to be, I know my voice trembled,
when I asked, “Do you love me, Silence?”
“Yes, William,” was the calm, innocent reply; “I have loved
you this long while, longer than I can remember!”
Had she, too, that strange feeling, I asked myself, as if our
love was born with her, and then I said,
“But, Silence, you love others, — Mary Lewis; your grandparents.
Do you love me more than them?”
An expression of half perplexity crossed her truthful features,
and for a moment she seemed rapt in communion with her own
heart. Then she placed her hand in mine, and said, still very
calmly,
“Yes, William, I am sure I love you more than all of them, —
more even than my dead mother in heaven, I love you.”
Surely those three words, “I love you,' never before conveyed
to human heart such an undoubted assurance of happiness;
but she was calm, and I restrained myself still, while I asked,
once more,
“But, Silence, do you understand me? It is as a wife I love
you. Are you willing to give up all others, and be mine only —
to live for me, as I will live for you?”
I dare not write the dear girl's answer. I dare not even say
it over to myself, after all this lapse of years.
I held her there, with her brown head lying upon my breast,
till the moon and stars rose up and smiled on our betrothal.
Then I placed upon her little finger the ring I had
brought, hung the golden cross about her neck, and walked slowly
homeward.
It would be vain to attempt to describe the heaven of joy and
peace which permeated my soul. Another life had grown into
mine. God had sent me an angel, to walk over these troublesome
was my prayer of thanksgiving, as I knelt at my window,
with the rich, silvery moonlight falling over me like a blessing!
When I woke in the morning, my great joy at first seemed dim
and indistinct, and then the full realization of it broke over me
as gloriously as the sunshine over earth.
There was but one thought to dim its brightness. Silence
could not go with me to Europe. She could not leave her aged
grandparents, and I must go alone, and claim her upon my return.
I hurried over to Oakwood early in the morning, just to tell
my fair betrothed the good news, that, by taking a horseback ride
of twenty miles to New York that day, in order to secure my
passage, I could remain at home for a fortnight longer. Two
weeks, or “fourteen days,” as Silence chose to call it. They
seemed a little eternity of joy to both of us, and my heart was
very light when I kissed Silence a cheerful good-by, telling her
I should probably remain in New York that night, and she would
see me again the next morning.
All that day my spirits were at high tide. I transacted my
business, chatted gayly with my friends, and a little before night,
tired as I was, I started to ride homeward, for I longed to look
into my darling's brown eyes; and I thought to her the surprise
could not fail to be a pleasant one.
On I dashed, over bushes, stones, and hills; but the path
seemed all flowers to me. I reached home just after moonrise,
and, giving my horse to a servant, started myself for Oakwood,
forgetting, in my lover-like impetuosity, that I had need of food
or rest.
I had nearly reached the little bower which had, the night before,
witnessed our solemn troth-plight, when the thought struck
me that it would be pleasant to go on the other side, where the
boughs were thick, and take a peep at my darling's sweet face
before letting her know I was there. It was a lover's fancy; I
thought I could tell if she were thinking of me, and whether she
was sad or happy.
Quietly I stole round the other side of the bower, and, cautiously
pulling aside the grape-leaves, looked in! * * * *
The blood freezes in my veins, even now, at the remembered
horror of that moment. I recall everything distinctly; through
years of agony, there was not an instant in which I could forget.
Silence was there, lovely, beautiful as ever, and by her side a
man young and handsome, with raven curls, and large, laughing
black eyes. He was in the undress of a military officer, and the
sword he had unbuckled from his side lay on the grass beside
him.
His arms clasped my Silence, her head lay quietly upon his
breast, and, as he pressed his lips to her brow, I — yes, I, her
betrothed lover! — heard her murmur,
“I had not thought to see you again so soon, Henri, dearest.
O, to see you and be so happy! Thank God!”
How could she, false and perjured as she was, dare to take
God's name upon her lips, I asked myself, as I turned away, shuddering.
How I got home I cannot tell, but I have a confused
recollection of biting my lips till they frothed with blood, and
tearing out great locks of hair in my solitary walk, to and fro,
through the house, that mad, weary night of agony.
I was calm enough in the morning, I remember. I arranged
when I met the family at breakfast, that I had concluded to go
from home to-day, after all, since I thought it would look better
to see a little more of my own country before crossing the seas.
My father, devoted to his chocolate and his newspaper, scarcely
heeded me at all; and my step-mother, whatever she may have
thought, said nothing.
After breakfast was over, I went to my room, and wrote a
note to Silence. I remember every word of that cruel missive,
as distinctly as if I had penned it but yesterday. It ran
thus:
“Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction
to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York
last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went
over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's
curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite
bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing
to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which
have bound you to
In an hour my messenger returned, bringing with him a note
from Silence. O, what a pretty, graceful little note it was!
Such a dainty envelope, and such an exquisite little hand! Despising
Silence in my heart, as I surely did, the note yet seemed
dear to me, in a certain sense, for it was the first one from her
whom I had hoped to call my wife; and I could not make up
my mind to return it, so I tossed it, unopened, in the bottom of
Oakwood.
Crossing the ocean was not then, by any means, the easy,
hasty thing it is now. It was like making a long and pleasant
visit at a friend's house.
I had plenty of leisure, while at sea, to think of Silence
Adams; but I was proud, and not even to myself would I acknowledge
my disappointment.
But still I must confess there was a voice low down in my
heart which kept saying her name over and over; and very often
her calm, fair face would come between me and the blue eyes of
Carrie Stanley, a sweet-voiced English girl.
Friendships are formed quicker at sea than on land; and a
week had not elapsed, ere, in a moment of insanity, I had
besought Carrie Stanley to become my betrothed bride. She
would have brought me broad lands as her dower, and a face
fair as our dreams of heaven; and yet, God knows, Silence was
my one love, even then. Carrie was calmly, tranquilly dear, but
never, for one moment, did my heart thrill to word or look of
hers as it had done to the lightest tone of Silence Adams.
We were yet many leagues from shore, when Carrie, my fair
orphan Carrie, sickened and died, with her head lying upon my
breast. The sunshine of heaven seemed to break upon her vision
ere she departed, and, pressing my hand to her lips, she whispered,
“I am being translated into the ineffable glory. You
will follow me some time into this great Peace.”
She died without a struggle, and round her lips lingered, even
in death, that smile kindled by the dawning light of Paradise.
I heard them say, “We commit this, our sister, unto the
deep!” A sullen plash, and all was over; and yet I do not think
I mourned her.
I had never loved her with a human passion. She seemed
rather some beautiful angel I had met in dreams. If there was
loneliness at my heart as we heaved in sight of the English
shore, the name to which the aching chords thrilled was not
Carrie's.
Three years had passed. It was the early Italian spring,
and I sat alone in my pleasant villa at sunny Florence. I had
travelled over many lands; gazed in blue eyes, black eyes and
gray eyes; flirted with the phlegmatic German, the lively
Frenchwoman, and the Italian with her lustrous eyes and her
voice of music. And yet but one name was on my lips, but
one face was in my heart, as I sat there dreaming in the hazy
glow of the southern sunset, — the name, the face of Silence
Adams.
I thought of that strange love which seemed born with me;
of the destiny which had linked our fates together; of the
halls of Oakwood, and the night on which we murmured our
troth-plight. She seemed to rise before me, in her youth and
beauty, as I saw her then. I could see the very flutter of her
white robe, and catch the music of her voice, as she murmured,
“I love you, William!”
And then came that other memory, crushing, and stern, and
terrible.
But — had I not wronged her? It was the first time I had
admitted to myself such a possibility.
I rose hurriedly, and, tumbling to the floor the varied contents
of my trunk, clutched eagerly that note — fair and pure, and
closely sealed, still. I read it, not with a burst of tears, but
with a frozen heart, and eyes starting from their sockets.
Silence was pure, pure as heaven!
It is a long way back now, and I 'll try to explain it all
calmly, as she did in that little note.
The poor child's mother, ardent, beautiful and enthusiastic,
had incurred the everlasting displeasure of her parents by marrying,
for love, a poor but handsome navy officer. He had
proved to be dissipated and unworthy of her, but she still clung
to him with all a woman's truth, and followed him from place to
place with her little Henry, until, five years after the birth of
this idolized child, Herbert Leslie was shot in a duel.
The next day Silence was born. There was but rude nursing
at the barracks, and no gentle tones of kindness. The one voice,
which would even now have been music to the poor mother's
ears, was hushed in death, and all around was cold, and calm,
and very still.
“Let her be called Silence,” whispered the mother to the
grim, hard-featured nurse standing at the bed's foot — “Silence
Adams;” and then those thin lips seemed to move in prayer
for a few moments, and — Silence Adams was motherless!
Her grandparents heard of their daughter's death, and of the
helpless babe, and came to claim her; but the boy bore his
father's face, and looked at them with his father's eyes, and they
induce them to admit him to Oakwood.
When Silence grew older, Henry made himself known to her;
and she, with so few to love, had lavished upon him a tenderness
which was almost idolatry. He had bound her by a solemn
oath to conceal from every human ear her knowledge of him;
and she dared not reveal it, even to me, without his consent. I
had surprised them at one of their stolen interviews, just as she
had succeeded in obtaining his permission to reveal these facts
to her betrothed.
“And now, William,” thus the note concluded, “now that
you know all, dearest, you will hasten to me, will you not, and
take back all those cruel words? O! William, William, if I
thought them true, I do believe my poor heart would break.”
Yes, Silence was pure, pure as heaven; and I — O, God,
could it be that I should yet be forgiven? There was hope in
the very thought. I placed the priceless note in my bosom, collected
my effects hurriedly together, and travelled post-haste for
Liverpool. The seventh day from that time saw me embark for
America.
O, how impatiently I trod the good ship's deck! how I prayed
for gales, tempests, anything that might bear us more swiftly on
our way! Hours seemed like months, and days like weary ages,
until, sailing thus o'er the calm blue sea, as in other days, there
came to me a vision of the lost Caroline.
Her brow was as fair as ever, her eyes were as bright, but
calmer than of yore. It seemed that about her was floating the
very radiance of that ineffable glory.
It may have been but a dream. I dare not think it was
me, and lay her cool hand upon my brow. She spoke — but it
seemed like the voice of a soul, and the bright lips were
motionless.
“Beloved,” she whispered, “I have come to warn you.
Human hearts must suffer. Perfect peace comes only when we
are absorbed in the Infinite. There is many a path before you
where the flowers beneath your feet will turn to thorns, and
where no cool water lies. But be patient, O my beloved! If
the great good comes not on earth, will it not go before you to
heaven?”
And the dream, the vision, passed away, and my soul came
back to this earthly life, with a murmur on my lips — “Yes,
in heaven.”
Ah! I have had need to say it over many times!
After that, I grew calm and patient, and only whispered the
name of my beloved in prayers.
At last my feet touched the shore. I had no time to gaze
up to the blue sky, or down to the green earth; there was not
even time for my soul to thrill to the joy of seeing my native
land. I hurried restlessly onward. It was midsummer afternoon
when I reached my father's gate, and, once more throwing
the reins to the servant, hurried over the fields to Oakwood.
I could see it in the distance. Its turrets looked grand,
and calm, and still, at even. And Silence, would she be there
to greet me?
Could she forgive me? What justification could I plead for my
great wrong? Suddenly my heart stood still. I grasped the limb
looked resolutely towards Oakwood.
Merciful God! was that a funeral procession which was coming
through the gates, as if to meet me? That coffin with its
waving pall, those girls robed in white, scattering flowers!
How madly I hurried on! They set the coffin down in front
of the gateway, after the manner of country funerals.
Slowly they turned back the pall. Slowly they lifted the lid,
and madly I hurried onward.
They gave way before my coming, as if they had seen a
spectre, and I gained the spot.
For one moment I veiled my eyes, and then I glanced downward.
It was Silence! — my Silence — cold, still, dead!
O, Heaven, how beautiful she looked there! The blue-veined
lids were closed over the brown eyes I had so loved to gaze into;
but the brown hair lay above her brow as of old, soft, and fair,
and very smooth.
The village girls had placed white roses on her breast, and
there, above her white robe, above the cold, pulseless heart, lay
the golden cross I had given her!
Silence! my own, my beautiful! faithful in death, as in
life!
Was the love passionate and earthly which forced me to press
such wild, beseeching kisses upon her brow and lips, which made
my hot tears fall over her like a rain of molten lava? O, why,
why did they not waken her? “Silence!” I shrieked, “Silence!”
but there came no answer from the lips that had always before
welcomed my coming. “Silence!” and still the fair, sweet,
me mad.
I did not know whether I followed her to the grave. I did
not know even where they laid my beautiful; but, when my
overthrown reason came tottering back again, I found myself with
the old people, her grandparents, who were forgetting their grief
in earnest strivings to lighten my wilder sorrow.
They were gathered to their fathers long ago, and Oakwood is
mine now.
Her brother dwells here with me, — her brother and his sweet
young wife, — and their fair children play at my feet; but I do
not envy him.
My wife is waiting for me above; and, as surely as I die, God
has mercifully given me faith that I shall rise again, and go
home to heaven and to her; for, when I depart, will not the last
name on my lips be Silence Adams!
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