Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 3, No. 18, April, 1859 by Various

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Thenceforward, Buffalo-coat was grim; his admonitions to the horses were
a trifle more emphatic; once he whistled a fragment of a minor stave,
but spoke not a word till the coach reached the tavern-door.

"You can drive to Mr. Lee's house," said Greenleaf.

"Want to go where he is?" replied Jehu, with a sardonic grin. "Wal, I'm
goin' past the meetin'us, and I'll set ye down at the graveyard."

"What do you mean?" asked Greenleaf, between anger and terror, at this
brutal jest.

"Why, he's dead, you know, and ben layin' up there on the side-hill a
fortnight."

"Take me to the house, nevertheless."

"Lee's house? 'Siah Stebbins, the lame shoemaker, he's jest moved
into't. Miss Stebbins, she can't 'commodate ye, most likely; got too
many children; a'n't over an' above neat, nuther."

"Where is Miss Lee,--Alice,--his daughter?"

"Wal, can't say;--gone off, I b'lieve."

"She has relatives here, has she not?"

"Guess not; never heerd of any."

With a heavy heart, Greenleaf alighted at the tavern. Mr. Lee _dead_!
Alice left alone without friends, and now gone! The thought stunned,
overpowered him. While he had been treading the paths of dalliance,
forgetful of his obligations, the poor girl had passed through the great
trial of her life, the loss of her only parent and protector,--had met
the awful hour alone. Hardly conscious of what he did, he went to the
churchyard and sought for a new-made grave. The whole scene was pictured
to his imagination with startling vividness. He saw the fond father on
his death-bed, leaving the orphan to the kindness of strangers to his
blood,--the daughter weeping, disconsolate, the solitary mourner at the
funeral,--the desolate house,--the well-meant, but painful sympathy of
the villagers. He, meanwhile, who should have cheered and sustained her,
was afar off, neglectful, recreant to his vows. Could he ever forgive
himself? What would he not give for one word from the dumb lips, for one
look from the eyes now closed forever?

But regrets were useless; his first duty was to the living; he must
hasten to find Alice. But how, where? It occurred to him that the
village lawyer was probably administrator of the estate, and could tell
him where Alice was. He went, therefore, to the lawyer's office. It was
shut, and a placard informed him that Mr. Blank was attending court
at the county-seat. The lawyer's housekeeper said that "Alice was to
Boston, with some relation or other,--a Mr. Monroe, she believed his
name was, but couldn't say for sartin. The Square could tell; but
he--wouldn't be back for three or four days."

Leaving his card, with a request that Mr. Blank would communicate to him
Alice's address, Greenleaf hired a conveyance to the railway. He could
not remain in Innisfield an hour; it was a tomb, and the air stifled
him. On his way, he had ample opportunity to consider what a slender clue
he had to find the girl; for he thought of the long column of Monroes in
the "Directory"; and, besides, he did not feel sure that the housekeeper
had correctly remembered the name, even.

We leave the repentant lover to follow on the track of Alice, assured
that he will receive sufficient punishment for his folly in the remorse
and anxiety he must feel.

It is quite time that our neglected heroine should appear upon the
stage. Gentle Alice, orphaned, deserted, lonely; it is not from any
distrust as to her talents, her manners, or her figure, that she
has been made to wait so long for the callboy. The curtain rises. A
fair-haired girl of medium height, light of frame, with a face in whose
sad beauty is blended the least perceptible trace of womanly resolution.
She has borne the heaviest sorrow; for when she followed her father to
the grave she buried the last object of her love. The long, inexcusable
silence of Greenleaf had been explained to her; she now believed him
faithless, and had (not without a pang) striven to uproot his memory
from her heart. Courageous, but with more than the delicacy of her sex,
strong only in innocence and great-heartedness, mature in character and
feeling, but with fresh and tender sensibility, she appeals to all manly
and womanly sympathy.

When the last ties that bound her to her native village were broken, she
accepted the hearty invitation of her cousin, Walter Monroe, and went
with him to Boston. The house at once became a home to her. Mrs.
Monroe received her as though she had been a daughter. Such a pretty,
motherless child,--so loving, so sincere! How could the kind woman
repress the impulse to fold her to her bosom? Not even her anxiety to
retain undivided possession of her son's heart restrained her. So Alice
lived, quiet, affectionate, but undemonstrative, as was natural after
the trials she had passed. Insensibly she became "the angel in the
house"; mother and son felt drawn to her by an irresistible attraction.
By every delicate kindness, by attention to every wish and whim, by
glances full of admiration and tenderness, both showed the power which
her beauty and goodness exerted. And, truly, she was worthy of the
homage. The younger men who saw her were set aflame at once, or sighed
afar in despair; while the elderly felt an unaccountable desire to pat
her golden head, pinch her softly-rounded cheek, and call her such
pet-names as their fatherly character and gray hair allowed.

Fate had not yet done its worst; there were other troubles in store for
the orphan. She knew little of her kinsman's circumstances, but supposed
him to be at least beyond the reach of want. But not many days passed
before the failure of Sandford deprived him of his little patrimony, and
the suspension of Mr. Lindsay left him without employment. That evening,
when Walter came home, she unwillingly heard the conversation between
him and his mother in an adjoining room; and then she knew that her
kind friends were destitute. Her resolution was at once formed. With
as cheerful an air as she could assume, she took her place at the
tea-table, and in the conversation afterwards strove to hide her
desolate heart-sickness. On going to her room, she packed her simple
wardrobe, not without many tears, and then, with only indifferent
success, tried to compose her scattered senses in sleep.

Next morning she strove to appear calm and cheerful, but a close
scrutiny might have detected the effort,--a deeper sorrow, perhaps,
about the heavy eyelids, and certainly a firmer pressure of the
sometimes tremulous lips. But Walter was too much occupied with the
conflict of his own feelings to observe her closely. While his mother
was engaged in her housewifely duties, he took Alice's hand, and for
the first time spoke of his losses, but expressed himself confident of
obtaining a new situation, and begged her to dismiss any apprehensions
from her mind. She turned her face that he might not see the springing
tears. He went on:--

"The sharpest pang I feel, Alice, is in the thought, that, with the loss
of my little fortune, and with my present gloomy prospects, I cannot say
to you what I would,--I cannot tell you what is nearest my heart. Since
you came here, our sombre house has grown bright. As I have looked at
you, I have dared to promise myself a happiness which before I had never
conceived possible."

He hesitated.

"Don't, dear Walter! I beg of you, don't venture upon that subject!"

"Why? is it painful to you?"

"Inexpressibly! You are generous and good. I love and honor you as my
cousin, my friend, my protector. Do not think of a nearer relationship."

Walter stood irresolute.

"Some other time, dear Alice," he faltered out. "I don't wish to pain
you, and I have no courage to-day."

"Let me be frank, Cousin Walter. Under other circumstances, I would
not anticipate the words I saw trembling on your lips. But even if the
memory of my poor father were not so fresh, I could not hear you."
She hid her face as she went on. "I have received a wound from the
faithlessness of one lover which never will heal. I could not repay your
love. I have no heart to give you."

Thus far she had controlled her feelings, when, kissing his hand with
sudden fervor, she burst into tears, and hastily left the room.

She waited till Walter went out; then she wrote a brief note and placed
it on the library-table at his favorite corner, and, after bidding Mrs.
Monroe good morning, went out as though for a walk. Frequently she
looked back with tearful eyes at the home she felt constrained to leave;
but gathering her strength, she turned away and plunged into the current
that set down Washington Street.

Brave Heart! alone in a great city, whose people were too much engrossed
with their own distresses and apprehensions to give heed to the
sufferings of others! Alone among strangers, she must seek a home and
the means of support. Who would receive an unknown, friendless girl? Who,
in the terrible palsy of trade, would furnish her employment?

CHAPTER XXIII.

There was naturally great surprise when Walter Monroe returned home to
dinner and Alice was found to be missing. It was evident that it was
not an accidental detention, for her trunk had been sent for an hour
previous, and the messenger either could not or would not give any
information as to her whereabouts. Mrs. Monroe was excessively
agitated,--her faculties lost in a maze, like one beholding an accident
without power of thought or motion. To Walter it was a heavy blow; he
feared that his own advances had been the occasion of her leaving the
house, and he reproached himself bitterly for his headlong folly. Their
dinner was a sad and cheerless meal; the mother feeling all a woman's
solicitude for a friendless girl; the son filled with a tumult of
sorrow, remorse, love, and pity.

"Poor Alice!" said Mrs. Monroe; "perhaps she has found no home."

"Don't, mother! The thought of her in the streets, or among suspicious
strangers, or vulgar people, is dreadful. We must leave no means untried
to find her. Did she leave no word, no note?"

"No,--none that I know of."

"Have you looked?"

She shook her head. Walter left his untasted food, and hastily looked in
the hall, then in the parlor, and at last in the library. There was the
note in her own delicate hand.

"DEAR WALTER,--

"Don't be offended. I cannot eat the bread of idleness now that your
fortune is gone and your salary stopped. If I need your assistance, you
will hear from me. Comfort your mother, and believe that I shall be
happier earning my own living. We shall meet in better times. God bless
you both for your kindness to one who had no claim upon you!

"ALICE."

"The dear creature!" said Mrs. Monroe, taking the note and kissing it.

"Why did you let her trunk go, mother? You might have detained the man
who came for it, and sent for me. I would have followed him to the ends
of the earth."

"I don't know, my son. I was confused. I hardly knew what happened. I
shook so that I sat down, and Bridget must have got it."

Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands trembled so that her fork
dropped.

"Never mind, dear mother. Pray, be calm. I did not wish to disturb you."

There was a ring at the door. A gentleman wished to see Mr. Monroe.
Rising from the table, he went into the parlor.

"Mr. Monroe," began the stranger, in an agitated manner, "do you know
anything of a young lady named Lee,--Alice Lee?"

"Yes," replied Monroe, with equal excitement, "I know her well. What of
her? Where is she? Have you found her?"

"Found her?" said the other, with surprise. "Is she not here?"

"No,--she left this morning."

"And left no word where she was going?"

"None."

"Let me beg of you not to trifle with me. Did she not hear my voice, my
step, and attempt to excuse herself through you?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Walter.

"I beg pardon. I have been in search of her for two days. I could not
believe she had eluded me just at the last. I do not wish to doubt your
word."

"And who may you be, Sir, to take such an interest in the lady?"

"I can satisfy you fully. My name is Greenleaf."

"The painter?"

"Yes. You must have heard her speak of me."

"Never, to my recollection."

"Have you known her long?"

"She is my cousin. It is only recently that she came here, and her
acquaintances of a year ago might naturally have been passed over."

"You seem surprised at her leaving you so abruptly. You will join me in
making search for her?"

"I shall search for her, myself, as long as there is hope."

"Let me confess," said Greenleaf, "that I have the strongest reasons for
my haste. She is betrothed to me."

"Since you have honored me with your confidence, I will return it, so
far as to tell you what I heard from her this morning. I think I
can remember the precise words:--'I have received a wound from the
faithlessness of one lover, which never will heal.' If you are the
person, I hope the information will be as agreeable to you as her
absence and ill-judging independence are to me. I wish you good
morning."

"Then she has heard!" said Greenleaf, soliloquizing. "I am justly
punished." Then aloud. "I shall not take offence at your severity of
tone. I have but one thought now. Good morning!"

He left the house, like one in a dream. Alice, homeless in the
streets this bitter day,--seeking for a home in poverty-stricken
boarding-houses,--asking for work from tailors or milliners,--exposed
to jeers, coarse compliments, and even to utter want!--the thought was
agony. The sorrows of a whole life were concentrated in this one hour.
He walked on, frantically, peering under every bonnet as he passed,
looking wistfully in at the shop-windows, expecting every moment to
encounter her sad, reproachful face.

Walter had been somewhat ill for several days, and the accumulation of
misfortunes now pressed upon him heavily. He did not tell his mother
of the strange interview, but sat down moodily by the grate, in the
library. He was utterly perplexed where in the city to search for Alice;
and with his mental depression came a bodily infirmity and nervousness
that made him incapable of effort. An hour passed in gloomy
reverie,--drifting without aim upon a shoreless ocean, under a sullen
sky,--when he was roused by the entrance of Easelmann.

"In the dumps? I declare, Monroe, I shouldn't have thought it of you."

"I am really ill, my friend."

"Pooh! Don't let your troubles make you believe that. Cheer up. You'll
find employment presently, and you'll be surprised to find how well you
are."

"I hope I shall be able to make the experiment."

"Well, suppose you walk out with me. There is a tailor I want you to
see."

"A tailor? I can't sew or use shears, either."

"No,--nor sit cross-legged; I know that. But this tailor is no common
Snip. He is a man of ideas and character. He has something to propose to
you."

"Indeed! I am much obliged to you. To-morrow I will go with you; but,
really, I feel too feeble to-day," said Monroe, languidly.

"Well, as you please; to-morrow it shall be. How is your mother?"

"Quite well, I thank you."

"And the pretty cousin, likewise, I hope?"

"She was quite well this morning."

"Isn't she at home?"

"No,--she has gone out."

"Confound you, Monroe! you have never let me have a glimpse of her.
Now I am not a dangerous person; quite harmless, in fact; received
trustfully by matrons with grown-up daughters. You needn't hide her."

"I don't know. Some young ladies are quite apt to be fascinated by
elderly gentlemen who know the world and still take an interest in
society."

"Yes,--a filial sort of interest, a grand-daughterly reverence and
respect. The sight of gray hair is a wonderful antidote to any tenderer
feeling."

"I am very sorry not to oblige you; but the truth is, that Cousin Alice,
hearing of my losses, has left the house abruptly, to earn her own
living, and we do not know where she has gone."

"The independent little minx! Now I rather like that. There's the proper
spirit. She'll take good care of herself; I haven't a doubt."

"But it is a most mortifying step to us. It is a reflection upon our
hospitality. I would have worked my fingers off for her."

"No doubt. But she will merely turn hers into nutmeg-graters, by
pricking them with her needle, and save you from making stumps of
your own. Oh, never fear,--we shall find her presently. I'll make
a description of her, and leave it with all the slop-shop fellows.
'Strayed or stolen: A young lady answering to the name of Alice; five
feet and no inches; dressed in black; pale, blue-eyed, smiles when
properly spoken to; of no use to any person but the owner. One thousand
dollars reward, and no questions asked.' Isn't that it? It won't be
necessary to add, that the disconsolate advertiser is breaking his heart
on account of her absence."

"My dear Easelmann, I know your kindly heart; but I cannot be rallied
out of this depression. I have only the interest of a cousin, a
friend, a protector, in the girl; but her going away, after my other
misfortunes, has plunged me into an abyss. I can't be cheerful."

"One word more, my dear fellow, and I go. You know I threatened to bore
you every day; but I sha'n't continue the terebrations long at a time.
You told me about the way your notes were disposed of. Now they are
yours, beyond question, and you can recover them from the holder; he has
no lien upon them whatever, for Sandford was not authorized to pledge
them. It's only a spoiling of the Egyptians to fleece a broker."

"Perhaps the notes themselves are worthless, or will be. Nearly
everybody has failed; the rest will go shortly."

"I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I
suppose. But don't hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown
yourself in your wash-basin. Good bye!"

On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf,
whom he had not seen before for many days.

"Whither, ancient mariner? That haggard face and glittering eye of yours
might hold the most resolute passer-by."

"You, Easelmann! I am glad to see you. I am in trouble."

"No doubt; enthusiastic people always are. You fretted your nurse
and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all,
yourself. A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard."

"She is gone,--left me without a word."

"Who, the Sandford woman? I always told you she would."

"No,--I left her, though not so soon as I should."

"A fine story! She jilted you."

"No,--on my honor. I'll tell you about it some other time. But Alice, my
betrothed, I have lost her forever."

"Melancholy Orpheus, how? Did you look over your shoulder, and did she
vanish into smoke?"

"It is her father who has gone over the Styx. She is in life; but she
has heard of my flirtation"--

"And served you right by leaving you. Now you will quit capering in a
lady's chamber, and go to work, a sadder and a wiser man."

"Not till I have found her. You may think me a trifler, Easelmann; but
every nerve I have is quivering with agony at the thought of the pain I
have caused her."

"Whew-w-w." said Easelmann. "Found her? Then she's eloped too! I just
left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress. It seems to
be epidemic. There is a stampede of unhappy females. We must compress
the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that
they can't get away."

"Whom have you seen?"

"Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine."

"The same. The lady, it seems, is his cousin,--and is, or was, my
betrothed."

"And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or
thereabouts!"

"How is one to find her?"

"What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn't use them?
Consider; she will look for employment. She won't try to teach, it would
be useless. She is not strong enough for hard labor. She is too modest
and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would
be sure to be discovered. She will, therefore, be found in the employ
of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder. How easy to go through those
establishments!"

"You give me new courage. I will get a trades-directory and begin at
once."

"To-morrow, my friend. She hasn't got a place yet, probably."

"So much the better. I shall save her the necessity."

"Go, then," said Easelmann. "You'll be happier, I suppose, to be running
your legs off, if it is to no purpose. A lover with a new impulse is
like a rocket when the fuse is lighted; he must needs go off with a
rush, or ignobly fizz out."

"Farewell, for to-day. I'll see you to-morrow," said Greenleaf, already
some paces off.

[To be continued.]

PRAYER FOR LIFE.

Oh, let me not die young!
Full-hearted, yet without a tongue,--
Thy green earth stretched before my feet, untrod,--
Thy blue sky bending over,
As her most tender lover,
With infinite meaning in its starry eyes,
Full of thy silent majesty, O God!
And wild, weird whispers from the solemn deep
Of the Great Sea ascending, with the sweep
Of the Wind-angel's wings across the skies,
Burdened with hints of awful memories,
Whose half-guessed grandeur thrills us till we weep!--
I love thy marvellous world too well--
Its sunny nooks of hill and dell,
Its majesty of mountains, and the swell
Of volumed waters--for my heart to yearn
Away from the deep truth which veils its splendor
In beauty there less dazzling, but more tender.
With grave delight I turn
To all its glories, from the tiniest bloom
Whose hour-long life just sweetens its own tomb
As with funereal spices,
To the far stars which burn
And blossom in fire through their vast periods,--
Borne in thy palm,
Like the pale lotus in the hand of Isis,
When throned white, and calm,
In solemn conclave of the mythic gods.

Oh, let me not die young,
A brother unclaimed among
The countless millions of thy happy flock,
Whose deepest joy is to obey,
Whereby they feel the measured sway
Of thy life in them, their own living part,
Whether in centuried pulses of the rock
By slow disintegration
Ascending to its higher,
Or the quick fluttering of the Storm-god's heart,--
An instant's palpitation
Through all its arteries of fire!
One common blood runs down life's myriad veins,
From Archangelic Hierarchs who float
Broad-winged in the God-glory, to the mote
That trembles with a braided dance
In the warm sunset's vivid glance;
And one great Heart that boundless flow sustains!
In all the creatures of thy hand divine

Thy love-light is a living guest,
Whether a petal's palm confine
Its glitter to a lily's breast,
Or in unbounded space a starry line
Stretches, till flagging Thought must droop her wing to rest.

Oh, let me not die young,
A powerless child among
The ancient grandeurs of thy awful world!
I catch some fragment of the mighty song
Which, ere to darkness hurled,
My elder brothers in the eternal throng
Have caught before,--
Faint murmurs of the surge,
The deep, surrounding, everlasting roar
Of a life-ocean without port or shore,--
Ere I depart, compelled to urge
My fragile bark with trembling from the verge
Of this Earth-island, into that Unknown,
Where worlds, like souls forlorn, go wandering alone!

Oh, let me not die young,
With all that song unsung,
A swift and voiceless fugitive,
From darkness coming and in darkness lost,
Before thy solemn Pentecost,
Dawning within the soul, shall give
The burning utterance of its flaming tongue,--
The boon whereby to other souls we live!
Thy worlds are flashing with immortal splendor,
For human speech on heights of human song
Faintly to render,
And pour back along
Its mountain grandeur, the accumulate rain
Of star-light, dream-light, thoughts of joy and pain,
Of love, hate, right and wrong,
In floods of utterance sublime and strong,
In dewy effluence beautiful and tender.

The kindred darknesses
Of caverned earth and fathomless thought,
Of Life and Death, and their twin mysteries,
Before and After, on my spirit press
Tempting and awful, with high promise fraught,
And guardian terrors, whose out-flashing swords
Beleaguer Paradise and the holy Tree
Sciential. Step by step the way is fought
That leads from Darkness, through her miscreant hordes,
Back to the heavens of wise, and true, and free:
Minerva's Gorgon, Ammon's cyclic Asp,
And the fierce flame-sword of the Cherubim,
That flashed like hate across the pallid gasp
Of exiled Eve and Adam, flare, and glare,
And hiss venenate, round the steps of him
Who thirsts for heavenly Wisdom, if he dare
Climb to her bosom, or with artless grasp
Pluck the sweet fruits that hang around him, ripe and fair.

Oh! glorious Youth
Is the true age of prophecy, when Truth
Stands bared in beauty, and the young blood boils
To hurl us in her arms, before the blur
Of time makes dim her rounded form,
Or the cold blood recoils
From the polluted swarm
Of armed Chimeras that environ her.
But worthy Age to ripened fruit shall bring
The glorious blooming of its hopeful spring,
And pile the garners of immortal Truth
With sheaves of golden grain,
To sow the world again,
And fill the eager wants of the New Age's youth.

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