 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE END OF THE HISTORY.
A few weeks of alternate hope and fear went by; and through
the freshening airs, and under the light of the full moon, Ellie
was walking, but not now alone. Willowdale was sold, and
Mr. Harmstead was going away, but in the autumn he would
return, and other cottages might be as beautiful as that he had
lived in so many years. Meantime there would be solace of
his absence in his letters, if dear Ellie would permit him to
write to her. What a new phase there was in the world, how
all life's burdens were lifted away from her heart. When the
long walk was over, they lingered yet at the gate, unwilling to
part. That the happiness of the girl was in his keeping, he
knew right well; that he could give his into her keeping he
must have felt, for that she was very dear to him I have no
doubt; and yet—and yet——
The hush of the deep night was around them; both stood
silent, and seeming for some cause impressed solemnly—whether
for the same cause, I cannot tell. “How beautiful the world is,”
Ellie said, at length, more perhaps to break the silence than to
give utterance to her thought. “Now and here,” answered the
lover, if lover he were, “I would die for you—it is a fit time
now.” “Not so,” Ellie replied; “life in its gloomiest days
has seemed to me a blessing—how much more so now; if you
would die for me, why not live for me?”
“Live for you! I must tell you a story,” he replied mysteriously.
“What is it?”
“Not now—I will tell you another time—to-night you are
not prepared.” And suddenly dropping the hand around which
turned away.
“When shall I see you again?” Ellie asked, trembling, half
earnest, half hesitating.
“Soon, very soon—perhaps to-morrow night,” and turning
back the parting kiss was given calmly, and as one might bestow
a benediction—and Ellie was alone—restless, unsatisfied,
wretched.
The next day came and went, and other days and other
weeks, but Mr. Harmstead came not. All the while she heard
reports of his movements that were anything but agreeable to
her—sometimes he was just on the eve of departure—sometimes
already gone, without having said good-bye to her. At
last she knew positively that he was going, and as she sat with
Zoe on the piazza, listening to the tinkling of the water, and the
mournful song of the whip-poor-will, they heard through the
thickening foliage that shut the road from view, clear ringing
tones, that both were quick to recognise.
Mr. Harmstead was come to say good-bye, and was accompanied
by Mr. Martin. He neither found nor sought to find
an opportunity of conversing alone with Ellie; he seemed to
have nothing to say to her any more than to Zoe or to his companion;—in
fact, he seemed to esteem them alike; he spoke of
the future, of returning, and of the pleasure it would give him
to meet them again, but he said not to Ellie that he would
either live for her, or die for her; and when the parting moment
came, he took her hand as he would have taken that of
Martin, saying only, when he saw the sorrow she could not
conceal, “One summer is soon gone, and then we shall meet;”
but in a moment he added, “you will probably be married
then.” Ellie said not “yes” or “no,” but pronouncing a farewell
with as much calmness as she could assume, went aside
into the darkness.
Zoe had no words of comfort—she felt that she might as well
say Peace to the winds, or reason with despair.
It is in vain to attempt description of the anguish of that
soul in which faith is crushed, and hope trembling and fading
into death. Reaching across the graves of buried love are the
sepulchre, we hear sweet voices saying, “not here, but risen,”
but when we mourn the falsehood of the living, there is nothing
on earth or in heaven to which we may bind our hearts; the
past must be cast away, and there is no future; we can pray
only for the dust to stifle the bleeding of our hearts, for eternal
silence to shut from us the mockeries of the world. Our feet
would be weary on the green hills of heaven in the first passionate
consciousness of our desolation, and our lips parched by
the sweet waters of life, if all that made an Eden to us here
were wanting there.
The days passed wearily; spring ripened into summer, and
summer faded into fall. Ellie had continued to teach the school,
faithfully discharging all her duties, and trying to build up a
new interest in life. In the shadow of the woods, near where
the children played, she might be seen, thoughtfully walking to
and fro, or leaning against the trunk of a tree, her book held
listlessly, or her needle forgotten.
In October her term would be finished, and she pleased herself
with making little plans as to what she would then do—
the many books she would obtain for solace during the long
winter hours; then, too, Mr. Harmstead was coming—and she
would look less plain and old fashioned than he had always seen
her, which would be some gratification. And so the time wore
on, and the month came at last. The school was over, and the
trifle, so wearily gained, divided with Zoe, who was to be
married.
One hazy afternoon they went to the city to make long-talked
of purchases. The bridal dress and veil had been
selected, and Ellie, smiling sadly, said she would procure black
ones for herself, when her attention was attracted toward a gay
equipage, and the smiling and seemingly joyous recognition of
Mr. Harmstead, was followed in a moment by glimpses of a
stately woman by his side, the countenance beautiful, but its
expression proud and half pitying.
Poor Ellie had thought herself stronger; but she knew not
till then how much of hope had lingered in her heart. How
should she know whither she went? How think of the miserable
of her thought, by asking what she proposed for herself,
she replied, after a moment's silence, “Nothing;” and opening
the hand which had held all her worldly treasure, Zoe perceived
that the purse was gone.
When the winter winds hung moaning on the casement, Ellie
sat by the homestead hearth alone; but as the sympathy, to
which she had been accustomed, was shut away from her, and
as nature withdrew herself, spreading chill and blight in all her
beautiful borders, she necessarily fell back on herself, and in
herself found a greater sufficiency of resources than she had
hoped.
It has always seemed to me one of the most beautiful provisions
of Providence, that circumstances, however averse we be
to them at first, close about us presently like waves, and we
would hardly unwind ourselves from their foldings, and standing
out alone, say, let it be thus or thus, if it were possible.
When the morning comes through her white gates, lifting her
eyes smilingly on us as she trails her crimson robes through the
dew, we would fain have it morning all the day. But when
noon, holding in leash the shadows, goes lazily winking along
the hill tops, and the arms of labor rest a little from their work,
where the fountain bubbles or the well lies cool, it seems a
good season, and we would keep back the din that must shortly
ruffle its placid repose. And when the phantoms of twilight
troop out of the dim woods, with the first stars, whether the
moon have all her golden filling, or hang like a silver ring in the
blue arching of the sky, the time seems the most beautiful of
all, and we are ready to say to the shadows, crouch back a little,
let the ashen gray prevail. Night broods over the world, deep
and solemn; away above us the still constellations go on their
way, and throwing earthward wildering beams like golden ladders,
whereon our thoughts may climb to heaven; clouds, with
dark ridges, cut the blue, or build a wilderness of black along
the edges of the horizon, or lie against each other, like squadrons
in the offing of a mighty sea; and whether the winds run
laughingly up and down the hills, or kennelled among the thick
season of thought, or of dreams, or of peaceful sleep.
And so with the various seasons of the year. May, with her
green lap full of sprouting leaves and bright blossoms, her songbirds
making the orchards and meadows vocal, and rippling
streams and cultivated gardens; June, with full-blown roses
and humming-bees, plenteous meadows and wide cornfields,
with embattled lines rising thick and green; August, with
reddened orchards and heavy-headed harvests of grain; October,
with yellow leaves and swart shadows; December, palaced
in snow, and idly whistling through his numb fingers—
All have their various charm; and in the rose-bowers of summer,
and as we spread our hands before the torches of winter,
we say, joyfully, “Thou hast made all things beautiful in their
time.” We sit around the fireside, and the angel, feared and
dreaded by us all, comes in, and one is taken from our
midst—hands that have caressed us, locks that have fallen over
us like a bath of beauty, are hidden beneath shroud-folds—we
see the steep edges of the grave, and hear the heavy rumble of
the clods; and in the burst of passionate grief, it seems that we
can never still the crying of our hearts. But the days rise and
set, dimly at first, and seasons come and go, and by little and
little the weight rises from the heart, and the shadows drift from
before the eyes, till we feel again the spirit of gladness, and see
again the old beauty of the world. The circle is narrowed, so
that the vacant seat reminds us no longer of the lost, and we
laugh and jest as before, and at last marvel where there was
any place for the dead. Traitors that we are to the past! Yet
it is best and wisest so. Why should the children of time be
looking backward where there is nothing more to do? Why
should not the now and the here be to us of all periods the best,
till the future shall be the present and time eternity?
So much of the history of a humble life as I proposed to
write, I have finished; of Ellie's future, of self-abnegation, of
humble and quiet usefulness, it is needless to speak. On her
forehead she has taken sorrow's crown of sorrow; and as she
goes about her household cares, giving, as much as may be, her
wound which, only the dust of death will wholly stifle. Sometimes
she builds her thoughts into careless rhymes, illuminated
with the light of setting suns; but when with her touching
delineations the fountains of feeling are troubled, no one suspects
the heart and life whence they have come. Mr. Jameson
goes to see her, now and then, telling her that there is no
need cessity that she should live so much alone; and that his
woman thinks her a pattern of excellence; and Mr. William
Martin calls too, sometimes, and reiterates his invitations; but
though she appreciates their kind intentions, she never extends
her walks beyond the church or the graveyard; but often as she
passes Willowdale, she repeats the line of England's gloomy
bard—so simple, yet containing so much—
Thou art nothing—all are nothing now.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |