MAIDEN! WITH THE meek brown eyes,
In whose orb a shadow lies,
Like the dusk in evening skies!
* * * * *
O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands — Life hath snares!
Care and age comes unawares! — LONGFELLOW.
IT is well that there are swifter ways of mental travel, than even the very quickest means of transit for the heavier material part, or we should be too late, even though we crossed the Atlantic in the speediest steamer of these modern days, and with the fairest winds and weather, for Mrs. James Melville’s new year’s party. Mrs. James looks none the worse for these two years that have glided away since we saw her last; she is dressed in all her holiday smiles to-night, though, as you pass up the lighted staircase to herdrawing-room, you can hear a shrill tone of complaint coming from some far-off nursery, which shows that James’s pretty house has got another tenant; and, truly, his paternal honours sit well on our old friend. The street without is illuminated by the lights which gleam through the bright windows, and are alive with the mirth and music that is going on within. There is a large company assembled; and, amid the crowded faces, all so individual and dissimilar, beaming on each other, here is one we should know — pale, subdued, and holy, like the Mary of some old master. It seems out of place, that grave, sweet countenance in this full room, and among this gay youthful company. It is our old friend Christian, hardly, if at all, changed since last we saw her, save for her deepened, yet still not melancholy sadness; it is said that her smiles, since that terrible time of Halbert’s disappearance, have been more sad than other people’s tears, but she does smile sweetly and cheerfully still; there is too little of the gall of humanity about her, too little selfishness in her gentle spirit to permit the cloud, which hovers ever her own mind, to darken with its spectre presence the enjoyment of others. Christian likes — as may be well believed — the quietness of her own fireside better than any other place; but James would have been grieved had she stayed away, and therefore is she here amid this crowd to-night. But there is a graceful figure near her that we shall not recognise so easily, though coming from a contemplation of that thin, worn face, inspired as we saw it last in yonder American city, and looking as we do on Christian there before us, we see that the features of her brilliant countenance are as like as brothers and sisters may be — like, and yet unlike, for the pressure of that great sorrow has fallen lightly on little Mary’s buoyant spirit. She is still “little Mary,” though her head is higher now than Christian’s, who calls her so. Those two years have added no less to her inner growth than to her stature, and Mary Melville, with all the mirth and joyousness of her earlier girlhood, has the cultivated mind of a woman now. There are many bright young faces shining in this gay room, but there is not one like little Mary’s; not one eye in this assembly can boast such a sunny glance as hers, graver than her peers when it is called to look on serious things, and beaming then with a youthful wisdom, which tells of holy thoughts and pure intents within, and anon illumined with such a flash of genuine mirthfulness and innocent gaiety, so fresh and unconscious in its happy light, as would startle the sternest countenance into an answering smile. She is much loved, our sprightly Mary, and is the very sun and light of the circle she moves in; and friends who have known her from her childhood, tell one another how like she is to Halbert, and shake their heads, and are thankful that she can never be exposed to similar temptations. Do they think that Mary, like her brother, would have fallen, that she must succumb too, before the adversary’s power, if tried as hardly? Ah, it is not well that the innocent lamb, so tender, so guileless and gentle, should be exposed to the power of the wolf, and who can tell but that there may be deadly danger lurking about her even now.
Christian’s smile grows brighter as it falls on Mary, “little Mary’s” sparkling face, and her voice is happier and more musical in its modulation as she answers her affectionate inquiries. They speak truly who say that Christian has no thought of herself: at this hour Christian would fain be on her knees in her solitary room, pleading for her lost brother; not lost, dear Christian, say not lost — is there not a lingering tone of sweet assurance in thy mournful heart, which, if thou would’st but hear it, speaks to thee out of the unknown secret stillness and says, Not lost, not lost, dear Christian, though thou yet knowest not how the faithful One has answered thy weeping prayers.
But, hush! little Mary is singing; a simple plaintive melody, as natural in its pleasant notes, as the dropping of the withered leaves around her absent brother, in you far American forest. There is a charm in these old songs which far surpasses more artistic music, for scarce is there a single ear on which they fall that has not many remembrances and associations awakened, or recalled, it may be joyful, it may be sorrowful, connected with their simple measure and well-known words, and in such, and in no other, does Mary Melville delight. There is one sitting by Mary’s side who seems to comprehend what few of the listeners do, or care to do, the singer’s delicate and sweet expression of the feeling of her well-chosen song. He has never seen her before to-night, but he seems to have made wonderfully good use of the short time he has spent beside her; and Mary has already discovered that the gentleman-like stranger, who devoted himself to her all through the evening, is a remarkably well-informed, agreeable man, and quite superior to the frivolous youths who generally buzz about in Elizabeth’s drawing-room, and form the majority of her guests. He has brilliant conversational powers, this stranger, and the still more remarkable art of drawing out the latent faculty in others, and Mary is half-ashamed, as she sees herself led on to display her hoards of hidden knowledge, adorned with her own clear perceptions of the true and beautiful, which, unknown to herself, she has acquired. It is a strange, an unusual thing with Mary to meet with any mind, save Christian’s, which can at all appreciate her own, and she is rejoicing in her new companion’s congenial temperament, and, in a little while, there is a group of listeners collected round them, attracted by something more interesting than the vapid conversations which are going on in this large room. Mr. Forsyth’s accomplishments are universally acknowledged, and he shines resplendent to night; and one after another, dazzled by his sparkling wit and still more engaging seriousness, join the circle, of which Mary is still the centre.
“Who would have thought,” say we, with Mrs. James, as she gazes wonderingly over the heads of her guests on the animated face of her young sister-in-law,—” who would have thought that Mary knew so much, or could show it so well!”
Is Christian’s care asleep to-night; what is she doing that she is not now watching over her precious charge? No, it is not; her eyes, which have strayed for a moment, are now resting fixed on Mary. See! how her cheek flushes at that man’s graceful deference. Listen to the laugh that rings from the merry circle at some sally of his polished wit. Mary looks grave and anxious for a moment, for his jest has just touched something which she will not laugh at, and he perceives it, and at once changes his tone, and turns with polished ease the conversation into a new channel. Is it well that Christian should be ignorant of one who is engrossing so much of her sister’s attention? No, it is not; and she feels that it is not; so she calls James, and is even now, while Mary’s joyousness is returning, anxiously inquiring of her brother who this stranger is. James does not even know his name. A cousin of Elizabeth’s brought him to-night, and introduced him as a friend who had been of great service to him; then Elizabeth herself is appealed to; Mrs. James is quite sure that Mr. Forsyth is a very respectable, as well as a very agreeable man; he could never have found his way into her drawing-room had he been other than that; her cousin never would have brought him had he not been quite certain and satisfied on that point. He is very rich, she believes, and very accomplished, she is sure, and, being unmarried, she is extremely pleased to see him paying so much attention to Mary. Christian shudders — why, she does not know; but she feels that this is not well, there is a something in his look — such nonsense! But Christian has always such strange, such peculiar notions, and is so jealous of all that approach Mary.
The gay young people that are around Mary make room for Christian, as she glides in to sit down by her sisters’s side. She is very grave now, as always; but some of them have heard her story, and all the nature in their hearts speaks for her in tones of sympathy, and their voices are quieter always when beside her. Over most of them she has some other power besides this of sympathetic feeling; there is hardly one there to whom she has not done some deed of quiet kindness, which would not even bear acknowledgment; thus they all love Christian. She sits down by Mary’s side, and her heart grows calmer, and more assured again; for Mary bends over her, and seeks forgiveness for her momentary forgetfulness. Pardon from Christian is easily obtained; yet, gentle as she is, it seems not so easy to win her favour. Mr. Forsyth’s fascinating powers, displayed and exerted to the full, are all thrown away. See how coldly she listens to and answers him; nay, how impatient she is of his courteous attentions. What has he done wrong? what can ail Christian?
Mr. James Melville’s party has been a very brilliant one; but it is all over now: the street grows suddenly sombre and silent opposite the darkened windows, and Mrs. James is not in the sweetest of moods: the baby, now that all the other music has ceased, is exercising his vigorous lungs for the amusement of the tired household; his weary mamma is aggravated into very ill-humour, and unfortunately can find no better way of relieving herself, nor any better object, than by railing at Christian’s folly. Mrs. James is sure, if Mr. Forsyth were to think of Mary Melville, they might all of them be both proud and pleased, for he would be an excellent match for her. She could not think what Christian expected for her — some unheard-of prodigy she fancied, that nobody but herself ever dreamt of — thus did the lady murmur on to the great annoyance of James.
But we must leave Mrs. James and her indignation to themselves, that we may follow the sisters home. They had little conversation on the way. Christian was silent and absorbed in her own thoughts, and Mary wondered, but did not disturb her; for Mary, too, has thoughts unusual, which she cares not to communicate; and soon, again, we are in the old room, no way changed since we saw it first, three years ago; and Mr. Melville — how shall we excuse ourselves for passing him over so lightly and so long — is here unaltered, as much a fixture in his wide, soft chair, as any piece of furniture in the well-filled room; and Robert, we lost him amid the belles of Mrs. James’s party! but here he is again, distinct, full grown and manly, and still retaining the blithe look of old. Christian alone has yet a disturbed apprehensive expression on her usually calm and placid face, and she wonders “How can James like such parties? it is so different from his wont.”
“Yes,” says Mary innocently, “I wonder that Elizabeth likes them. If there were just two or three intelligent people like Mr. Forsyth, it would be so much better.”
Poor Christian!
The protection of the Almighty has been implored “through the silent watches of the night,” and Mr. Melville’s household is hushed in sleep — all but Christian; for this quiet hour when all are at rest, is Christian’s usual hour of thoughtful relaxation and enjoyment. But she had a clouded brow and an uneasy look when she entered her room to-night — that room of many memories. At length there is no mist of disquietude to be seen upon her peaceful face; no doubt in her loving heart: she has gone to the footstool of the Lord, and borne with her there that child of her tenderness and affection, over whose dawning fate she has trembled, and has committed her into the keeping of the Father of all; and she has poured forth, with weeping earnestness, the longings of her soul for that lost brother, whom even yet she knows not to be within the reach of prayer. Often has she thought that Halbert may be dead, since day after day these years have come and gone, and no tidings from, or of him, have gladdened her heart. Her spirit has been sick with deferred hope, as month after month went by and brought no message. But she is calmer tonight; the load is off her soul; she has entrusted the guardianship of the twain into His hands who doeth all things well, and with whom all things are possible; and wherefore should she fear!
The light in her chamber is extinguished, and the moonbeams are streaming in through the window. A few hours since she watched their silvery radiance stealing, unheeded and unseen, into you crowded room, drowned in the flood of artificial light which filled it, and then she had thought these rays an emblem of Heaven’s Viceroy — conscience — unknown and unnoticed, perchance, by those gay people round about her, but even then marking with silent finger upon its everlasting tablets, the hidden things of that unseen and inner life in long detail, moment, and hour, and day, for each one of them. But now, in the silence of her own room, these beams have another similitude to Christian, as they pour in unconfined, filling the quiet chamber. They tell her of peace, peace full, sweet, and unmeasured, — not the peace of a rejoicing and triumphant spirit, — the sunbeams are liker it, — but of one borne down with trial and sorrow, with a sore fight of affliction, with a fear and anguish in times past, yet now at rest. Oh, happy contradiction! distracted with cares and anxieties, yet calm amid them all, full of the memories of bygone sorrow, of forebodings of sorrows yet to come, but peaceful withal, how blessed the possession!
It falls upon her form, that gentle moonshine, and her features are lit up as with a twilight ray of heaven: it lingers over her treasures as though it loved them for her sake. It streams upon that portrait on the wall, and illuminates its pensive and unchanging face, as with the shadow of a living smile; and Christian’s heart grows calm and still within her beating breast, like an infant’s, and holy scenes of old come up before her liquid eyes, like ancient pictures, with that steadfast face upon the wall shining upon her in every one; not so constant in its sad expression, but varying with every varying scene, till the gathering tears hang on her cheeks like dewdrops, and she may not look again.
And there is peace in that household this night, peace and sweet serenity, and gentle Christian Melville. hopefulness; for a blessing is on its prayer-hallowed roof and humble threshold, and angels stand about its quiet doorway, guarding the children of their King — the King of Kings.