University of Virginia Library

SWEET ELLEN ADAIR.

I am sitting here alone, in my old maid's room. The sunshine
drifts pleasantly in at the windows; the orioles and robins

have built their nests in the trees that overshadow my eaves;
the cool breeze lifts my silver hair lightly, and I am happy, with
a strange, quiet blessedness.

Voices come to me from bright, young lips, that were long ago
laid to rest beneath the grave-yard turf. White, dimpled hands
are clasping mine, and I am wandering again with those beloved
dead, over the enchanted paths of my childhood.

Once more we gather strawberries in the meadows, or go nutting
in the still haunts of the woodland.

And among those buried friends and loves there is one face
fairer than all, — a quiet, calm, spiritual face; clear chestnut
eyes, overshadowed by glossy chestnut hair — the hair, the eyes,
of Ellen Adair! I met one like her, in Charlestown, a few weeks
since, one as fair almost as she was; and Ellen Adair rose up
again before me, pure, fresh and lovely.

It is but a few days since I sat underneath the beech-tree by
the garden wall, with a living friend beside me, — one who, for
many years, seemed to me as a brother, — and I listened to a tale
of those other days, of which I will tell you here in the pages
of this old book, this memoir of my youth, which I shall leave
behind me for my nephews and nieces to read, when I too have
gone to the land of shadows.

My pet namesake came to me, the other day, with her sweet
face wearing an unusually grave expression, and asked me, very
earnestly, “Aunt Louise, you are an old maid, an't you?”

“Yes, dear,” I answered, nothing daunted.

“Well, Aunt Louise, did anybody ever want to marry
you?”

“You shall know when I am dead, darling,” was my reply;
and the sweet questioner left me with tearful eyes.

O, blessed be God for love! It is a blessed thing to be thus
dear to Gertrude's children, even though no childish voice can
ever call me mother, no small, rose-dimpled hand ever rest upon
my bosom. Yes, they will read the history of my poor heart's
loves and hopes, when I am dead; and then, too, they may
read the story of Ellen Adair, in these leaves out of my
diary!

I can just remember the first time I saw her. It had been
rumored about, in our village, that a new family had moved into
the neighborhood; and of course their children, more or less,
would attend our next term of school. The first day of school is
always, like the last one, an important occasion; there is the
new teacher to criticize, the new scholars to get acquainted with,
and the new rules to listen to.

I remember this day was a particularly important one to me,
for it was the first time I wore my new pink dress, and that
little new white apron.

School-girls can generally afford to be generous enough to
admire what belongs to another, and my dress and apron elicited
their due share of approval ere I commenced to watch the gravelled
walk leading from Mr. Adair's (the new neighbor's) front-door,
and “wonder” how many new scholars would come.

At last the door opened, and one little girl came out all alone.
She left the yard, crossed the street, and came up to the school-house.
As she approached, the scholars all looked at the shy,
pale, delicate little creature, in her sky-blue muslin frock, with
an air of not unkind curiosity; but they all withdrew as she

entered. I was about to follow them, when another glance at
her timid, appealing face determined me to remain.

I approached her very gently (thinking, I remember, that my
pink dress and white apron might serve to assist me in making a
favorable impression), and asked if I should show her where
to put her bonnet.

“Thank you,” she said, gently — “I don't know any one here;
will you please to tell me what your name is?”

“Louise Cleveland,” I answered, with a smile, quite delighted
at finding her so easy to get acquainted with. “Louise Cleveland,
— and yours?”

“O, I am Ellen Adair.”

“Ellen Adair,” I repeated; “it is a sweet name, and I mean
to love you very much, — may I?”

Her answer was a kiss; and from that hour she was my other
self, a part of my very existence.

In the play-ground I was her champion, and in the languages
her guide and assistant; while she repaid me by lending me the
advantage of her unusual quickness in mathematics, for which
her love amounted almost to a passion.

Strange as this love seemed to me then, now that I think of
it, it seems not quite so singular, for hers was a mathematical
character, — about her every act there was a kind of mathematical
precision, — and her ideas of right and wrong were as
thoroughly grounded on the plummet-and-line system as if
every act were the solution of a problem in geometry.

For years our friendship continued to glide along in the same
uninterrupted channel, when at length a stranger came to disturb
the current of Ellen Adair's peaceful life. I have met,

during my long life, many persons whom to see was to admire,
but I never met one whose first appearance was so irresistibly
impressive as that of Edward Gray.

He was a young man of brilliant talents, and of rare promise
in his chosen profession, the law; but he was poor, and in debt
for his education, and this seemed to close against him many of
the hospitable doors of Ryefield, and, among others, that of the
aristocratic Colonel Adair.

But he soon became a warm friend of my brother Frank, and
a frequent visitor at my father's house.

Of course, Ellen soon met him there; and it seemed to me,
from the first, that they were made for each other. When I
introduced them, Edward bent upon the delicate girl a glance of
intense, almost passionate admiration; and she — but it was not
possible for any one to see Edward Gray without an involuntary
admission of his superiority.

He was about the medium height, with a full chest, strong
arms, and firmly-knit muscles. His forehead was broad and
prominent, and over it hung thick curls of coal-black hair;
while beneath his heavy brows flashed eyes so black, so large, so
glorious, that to meet them was almost to adore them. His
manners were faultless; and his voice (as if a woman ever could
forget that) was clear, and deep, and musical. He said but
little, except when he was particularly interested, and then forth
from his lips would burst a whole flood-tide of eloquent words,
swaying you like the sea.

It was a quiet summer evening when they first met. The
trees waved their giant arms between them and the blue sky,
spangled with stars. Beneath their feet was the cool, soft grass,

and around them the balmy air of the summer evening, laden
with moonbeams. Ellen and I were in the garden, and Edward
Gray joined us, with my brother Frank.

After that they met quite often, and soon I learned that
a passion new and absorbing had taken possession of my sweet
friend.

When she told me of it, with tears and blushes, she made
me promise to guard the secret in my own heart; and never did
I breathe it to mortal, until roses were growing over her pure
brow.

“He will never love me,” she cried, amid her tears, as she
ceased her narration. “He could not, Louise, I am so small,
and plain, and foolish. Louise, you know he could never love
me, and don't you despise me for loving him?”

“No, indeed, darling. Why should I? I thought, from the
first, that you were made for each other, and the wonder would
be if you did not love him. I am sure, dearest, he can't help
loving you; nay, I think he does already.”

Nor was I wrong, for the very next day Edward himself came
to me with a tale of love for my sweet Ellen, and in a similar
manner made me promise to preserve silence. So here was I in
possession of a secret whose disclosure would have made two
hearts happy, and which, yet, I was bound in honor not to
reveal. Was there ever a more difficult position for a woman to
be placed in? O, how my tongue did ache! Had he better tell
Ellen now, was Edward's concluding question, or should he wait?
Tell her now, by all means, I advised.

Always before, when Ellen had spent the evening with us,
my brother Frank had attended her home; but the next time she

came, Frank was not there, and I thought Edward was not sorry
to have the opportunity. I watched them depart, talking gayly,
and then I reentered the house, and sat there building air-castles
as usual, when, half an hour later, Edward entered.

“What! you back here again, and so soon?” I exclaimed,
as he approached; but instantly I saw something unusual had
disturbed him.

“Yes, I am back here,” he replied; “and I 'd better not have
left here, unless I wished to get insulted gratuitously.”

“Why, Edward, what do you mean? Surely, Nellie has n't
rejected you?”

“No, I have not given her the opportunity.”

“Well, for mercy's sake, what is it, then? Who, in the name
of common sense, has been insulting you?”

“Well, listen, Lou; you may as well know it first as last, and
I 'll tell you. I walked home with Ellen Adair, simpleton that
I was. I thought I had never been so happy in my life as when
her little hand rested confidingly, I almost dared to think lovingly,
on my arm. I was telling her of my past, of my poverty
and my struggles, and perhaps in five minutes more I should
have asked her to become the arbiter of my future, when we
arrived at the door of her father's house, and there was Colonel
Adair himself standing at the gate.

“`This is Mr. Gray, father, who has come home with me from
Louise Cleveland's,' said Ellen, timidly; and then, turning to
me, she added, `Won't you come in, sir?'

“Before I had time to reply, the colonel remarked,

“`It is already time for prayers, and retiring. I am much
obliged to the gentleman for taking you safely home, though I

should prefer you would always let me know where you are
going, that I may have a servant sent for you.'

“`Good-night, sir,' said Ellen, gently. `Good-evening,' said
the colonel, in his most polite and frigid manner; and your humble
servant, Edward Gray, bowed his head and left.”

“Yes, Edward,” said I, laughing merrily at his description,
“you are proving how very humble you are, by your present
resentment of an affair no one else would have thought of construing
into an insult. I suppose that the colonel thought Ellen
had never met you before, — did n't exactly approve of a stranger
gallant, and probably thought it was time for young people to
be in bed, that was all, — so run home, sir, get a good sleep,
and come over to escort Ellen home in better season to-morrow
night.”

However, I ascertained, the next day, that there was more in
the affair than my philosophy had dreamed of. It seemed the
colonel had been for some time mistrusting his daughter's
increasing regard for Edward Gray, and had determined to
improve the first opportunity of expressing his disapprobation.

After prayers, he had called her to him, and firmly, calmly
told her that, if she married Edward Gray, she would henceforth
be no child of his; and that the less a young lady associated on
intimate terms with a gentleman she could not marry, the better
would be her reputation.

Poor Ellen came to me, in great affliction, the next morning.
She was almost, nay, quite certain, that Edward loved her, from
his remarks, as he walked home by her side; and, if he asked
her love in return, what should she do?

“If he loves you, and you love him,” I answered, “and you

believe him good and true and noble, marry him, and make his
life happy.”

Reader, I suppose my advice was very wrong, but it was the
judgment of an inexperienced girl, deeply anxious for the happiness
of two whom she most truly loved. But Ellen's mathematical
notions of right were not so to be set aside.

“Why, Louise,” she said, mildly, “my father gave me life,
and he has a right to say to whom it shall be devoted. I was
only deliberating whether I ought to tell Edward that I love
him, or whether it would be better for him not to know it.”

“Better for him!” I exclaimed, passionately. “You have not
a thought for yourself in your heart. I tell you it won't kill
Edward, any way, for he 's proud, and a man, though he does
love you; but you, Ellen Adair, you will die, if you don't
marry him. You need not shake your head — I 've known you
ever since you were a tiny child, and I tell you, you would die.
Don't I know your disposition? You never loved but a few
persons in all your life, and to lose one of those — the dearest,
too — would kill you. You could n't live, and see Edward
Gray married to another!”

O, how meekly she answered me! Never had I seen her
look so thoroughly angelic.

“I am so glad,” she said, “that you think it won't kill
Edward, any way. As for me, I don't think I shall die yet;
but my mother's in heaven, you know, already, and I 'm willing
to go home to her when my Father calls me;” and she raised
her mild, serious eyes to heaven, with such an expression of
hopeful love and trust, that I could hardly refrain from falling

on my knees and worshipping her, as a visible incarnation of the
Divine Love.

After that, Edward Gray met her but seldom, and even then
usually in the presence of others; but one night they chanced to
be alone for a few moments in the grape-vine arbor at Elmwood,
and he told her all his love. She listened, timidly, in
wild joy, blent with quick throbs of agony, and when he concluded,
she answered, very quietly,

“I love you, Edward, but I cannot marry you. It is impossible!”

“I knew it — I knew it!” cried Edward, wildly, as he rushed
from her presence, hearing not, or heeding not, her faint, whispered
request that he would return.

Half an hour later, I found Ellen alone in the arbor, sobbing
as if her heart would break.

“O, Louise,” she said, “I have made him angry, and he
will never come back. He would not wait for me to tell him
why I would not marry him — and he is gone!”

And, true enough, he was gone. The next morning Edward
Gray had left the village, and it was years before we heard from
him again.

Ellen Adair suffered deeply; every day her pale face seemed
to grow thinner, and paler, and more spiritual; but she did not
die. She never uttered a single complaint. Not one word of
unthankfulness marred the pure gratitude of her living unto
God, for her life was one continual sacrifice of herself. It was
in vain that men, however noble or talented, attempted to
pay her any attention. They were repulsed — quietly and politely,
it is true, but yet most decidedly.

Her heart had opened like a rose-bud to the touch of one
master spirit; but, like a rose-bud once withered, its leaves
could never again unfold. She passed her life in the discharge
of all gentle duties of love and charity; while you could never
have guessed, from her manner, that a single grief had ever
shrined itself in her pure heart.

Five years had passed, and a new house was going up in Ryefield.
A stranger had purchased the ground, the most beautiful
site in the village. Then an architect arrived with his troops
of workmen, and soon the imposing structure rose up fair and
stately. The grounds in the neighborhood were laid out with
exquisite taste, and everything was being arranged and beautified
according to the directions of its invisible owner.

At last came a rumor that Edward Gray, who had been
spending some time in Europe, had returned, and was become
the proprietor of the grove, and its new edifice.

“Of course he must have got married,” said the gossips; “he
never would think of taking that trouble for himself, all alone.”

For once it seemed that the gossips were right; for, as soon
as the house and its appurtenances were completed, a handsome
travelling-carriage drove through the village, and stopped at the
grove. From this same travelling-carriage alighted our old
friend Edward Gray, and after him a lady, young, slight, and,
the gossips said, beautiful.

For my own part, I thought of all the happiness at the grove
without either pleasure or envy, for I was heartily provoked
with Edward.

True, Ellen Adair had refused to marry him; but why could
he not have asked her again — why could he not have waited?

I was brooding these things in my heart, about a week after
the family had become domesticated, when Ellen herself came
in.

“Have you been to the grove yet?” was her first inquiry.

“No, nor I don't want to. I don't like Edward Gray, now;
and, as for his upstart wife, I don't want to see her!”

“Why, Louise, are you quite sure you are in your senses?”
said Ellen, quietly, as she laid her hand upon my brow. “I
am going to call on Mrs. Gray,” she continued, “and you must
go and get your bonnet and come with me. It 's a civility we
owe to strangers; and, beside, I don't mind telling you, Louise,
I do want to see what kind of a person Edward Gray has found
to love.”

I know not what sort of spell the girl exercised over me with
her “come and go,” but, really, it soon began to seem a necessary
piece of civility, and a very desirable thing, to call on the
Grays, and forthwith I got ready and went.

Ellen was looking beautifully, that afternoon. She wore a thin
white hat, with pale pink flowers and ribbons, a dainty white
muslin dress, and a delicate rose-colored scarf.

She was “fair and beautiful” to look upon, as the Scotch
people say; and I was wondering, as she tripped up the gravelled
walk, whether the sight of that sweet face would not still
have power to make Edward Gray's matrimonial heart ache.

A servant conducted us into the pleasant parlor. It was
indeed arranged with exquisite taste — books, and pictures, and
rare objects of vertu brought from beyond the sea, were scattered

round in luxurious profusion, while the other appointments
of the room were gorgeous enough for the boudoir of a countess.
“And all this might have been Ellen's!” thought I, as I surveyed
it.

Edward Gray entered first. He was indeed handsomer than
ever, and I trembled for the effect of his appearance on Ellen.
She rose as he entered the room, but immediately sat down
again. He approached her cordially, with an extended hand.

“Miss Adair,” he remarked, “it gives me pleasure to welcome
you to our new home.”

“And it gives me pleasure, Mr. Gray,” she replied, “to
welcome you to Ryefield.”

And this was all. Thus they met — two persons who had
once been all the world to each other. I knew that Nellie loved
him still, but for Edward Gray I could not answer.

Very soon Mrs. Gray entered. The character of her face was
not sufficiently exalted to be called beautiful, but she was an
extremely pretty person. She was a blonde, with luxuriant
hair, and large, clear blue eyes, with a smile in them. Her
slight figure was arrayed in the most elegant and tasteful manner,
and, altogether, she was as nice a little wife as one need
wish to see.

She welcomed us both cordially, remarking to me, “I
have often heard my husband speak of you, Miss Cleveland; but
I don't remember to have heard Miss Adair's name before.
Perhaps” (turning to Ellen) “you were not in town when my
husband was here before?”

“O, yes,” said I, simply, “surely Ellen was in town, but

perhaps Mr. Gray mentioned me more especially, because my
brother Frank was his most intimate friend.”

Our call, though a brief one, was sufficient to assure me that
there was no intellectual sympathy between the talented, brilliant
Edward Gray, and his very nice little wife; and to convince
me, also, that Ellen Adair was not quite forgotten. After many
years, Edward told me the particulars of his marriage.

It seems, he had acquired his immense fortune by a successful
discovery which he patented in England, soon after he left
Ryefield; and then, being desirous of making the tour of the continent
before his return, he had joined the party of an English
nobleman, whose wife was an American. The lady's sister, Miss
Maria Clinton, had been of the party, and very soon he discovered
that his polite attentions to the younger lady had awakened
a sentiment warmer than friendship in his behalf.

At first, this perplexed him; then it flattered him, and soothed
the vanity wounded by Ellen Adair's rejection; and so, before he
was aware of it, he found himself the husband of Maria Clinton.
But he awoke from the honeymoon to discover a want in his
heart which she could not satisfy, a love she had never yet been
able to awaken. Still would the sweet face of Ellen Adair
haunt his slumbers; still he awoke to sigh over a love his conscience
condemned, and his judgment pronounced hopeless.

I know not by what strange fate he was urged on, when he
came to Ryefield, and fixed his residence so near the object of his
hopeless love. For her, at least, his coming was not well. I
was right in thinking she could not endure to see him the husband
of another.

From the day on which we called at the grove, she commenced

to pine; and, while the summer days grew long and pleasant, her
step became more and more feeble, and her cheek paler.

It was late in an August afternoon, the sun was just sinking,
and his infinite glory streamed over the broad earth, and through
the blinds, into the windows, and over the carpet of Ellen
Adair's pleasant room.

Ellen herself was sitting in a high-backed chair, bolstered up
by pillows, watching the clouds; and when the last one faded
from the west, and the stars began to come out in the clear
blue, she turned to me, and said, solemnly,

“Louise, I have seen the sun go down and the stars rise for
the last time!” There was nothing mournful in her voice; it
was only the certainty, and the shadow of death, that frightened
me. Ellen's face looked calm and sweet, as usual, and there was
no tremor in her clear voice.

“Must you go to-night, darling?” I whispered, mournfully.

“Yes, Louise, and, were it not that I don't like to leave you, I
should be very thankful. While here I had to struggle fiercely with
a terrible sin, — the temptation to love Edward Gray, now that he
was the husband of another. Thank God, Louise, that this cup
is about to pass from me; for it will not be wrong to look down
on him from heaven and love him.”

I stole from the room, as she ceased speaking, and taking a
card, I wrote hurriedly on the back of it:

I sent this note by the errand-boy, and then reëntered Ellen's
room, without telling her anything of the proceeding. In five
minutes Edward Gray stood by her bed-side, for we had lain her
down on her couch by the window. Going up to her, he knelt
down by her side, and, folding her in his arms, he exclaimed,

“O, Ellen, my first, my only love!” For a moment she
shrank from his embrace, but he only held her the more
firmly.

“Ellen,” he said, “darling Ellen, you shall rest here now;
you are dying, and it is not wrong. I will hold you thus, once
in this life. You shall die upon my bosom! O, Ellen, how I
have loved you! God in heaven knows that, from the first
moment I ever saw you, you have been the very idol of my being.
It is true, I called another wife. I took another to my home
and heart; but it was for her sake, not for mine, and when I did
not know you had ever loved me.

“O, Ellen, my soul's darling! will you not be mine in heaven?
Thank God with me, my beautiful, that there is death, there is
heaven!”

And there he sat all this time, clasping her in his arms, as she
had never dared to hope he would clasp her on earth. The past
was forgotten, — the long, bitter, suffering past, — in the ecstasy
of that one hour, snatched, as it were, from the very jaws of
death.

Silently, for a long time, Ellen lay there, with her head upon
his bosom. At length she said, with a faltering voice, “Glory
be to God on high! God is good, — is he not, Edward? — to give
us one hour like this, even though it must be death which hallows
it!”

Then, for a long time, there was once more silence between
us in that chamber of death; and once more Ellen broke it.

“Come and kiss me, Louise,” she said; and I pressed my lips
to hers. “You have been very dear to me, my more than sister;
and God will bless you for all your love.

“My father,” and she turned her eyes on the old man, seated,
in his agony, at the bed's foot, — “my father, will you not kiss
your motherless child, and bless her?”

Fondly the father pressed his lips to her brow, and bade God
be merciful unto her and bless her in her last agony, even as she
had blessed him, all the days of her life. Then she turned to her
lover, and, resting her head still closer on his bosom, she whispered,

“Edward, I am all yours now, until I am summoned by our
Father and our God. He is our God, is n't he, Edward? Strive,
for my sake, dearest, to put all your faith in him, to pray for his
grace, and finally to meet me in heaven. But I can't talk any
more. I am faint. Pray for strength, dearest. Kiss me
once!” and, for the first time in his life, Edward Gray pressed
his lips to those of the idol of his youth, the worship of his manhood.
But he kissed the dead, for Ellen's lips were cold and
stiff.

So soon, so silently, had her spirit passed from earth to heaven,
while the light was still kindling in her eyes, and the sweet smile
still beaming about her lips.

We laid her to rest in a quiet, blessed spot, where the grass is
green, and the brook murmurs by her, ever and forever, soothing
her sleep with its melody. The days of her father were long
ago numbered, and he, too, sleeps beside his Ellen.

Edward Gray was a kind, devoted husband, but a year has
passed since his wife sunk into her grave; and, sitting beside
me in a pleasant nook, not many days ago, he told me, for
the first time, of his relations with Maria, his motives in marrying,
and the sacred altar in his heart, where Ellen's name had
been always written, and where no eyes, save hers, had ever
gazed.

But that is past. I am an old woman now, and Edward Gray
also will soon be gathered to his fathers. There will be other
graves, beside Ellen's and that of my little brother; and over
them all will the sunshine rest, the stars smile, the willows wave,
and the green trees nod.

We have loved in life, and in death we will not be divided.