“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don’t know how sorry I am for you. But these feelings will pass away with time. You are very young; and life is all before you.”
The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness in her eyes, and answered, “Yes, mother, I am young; but life is all behind me.”
* * * * *
There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was in Sibella’s life. That brief dream of the past would not unite itself with the actual present. She could form no bridge between them. It remained by itself; like an island warm with sunshine, and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed, all things around her seemed changed. The young men, especially, appeared like a different race of beings, since she had learned to compare them with that poetic youth, who gazed so reverently at the evening star, and loved the wild-flowers as if they were living things. He had kindled her imagination, as well as her heart. She perceived a soul in Nature, of which she had been unconscious till he revealed it. Ah, how lonely she was now! In all the wide world there was not one mortal who could understand what that simple country girl had found, or what she had lost. She herself did not comprehend it. She only had an uneasy sense of always seeking for something she could never find. She lived among her former associates like one who has returned from an excursion into fairy-land, finding the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But employments are Amaranths in the garden of life. They live through all storms, and survive all changes of the seasons. Her duties were numerous and conscientiously performed; and through this pathway of necessity, apparently so rugged, she soon arrived at a state of cheerful serenity.
In a few months, her parents were induced to join a band of emigrants coming to America; and the novelty of change proved beneficial to her. That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten, but it smiled upon her farther in the distance. There was a joyful palpitation at her heart, when she found Eglantines growing wild in America, under the name of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened the verses which had seemed to her “si belle!” The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but memory was redolent of its fragrance. She was never told that Edward Vernon had written two letters to her, after he left England; and she had almost persuaded herself that his looks and tones were not so significant as they had seemed. She had no materials to form a definite hope; but it became the leading object of her life so to improve herself, that he would have no cause to be ashamed of her, if he ever should happen to come to America. In the accomplishment of this project, she was continually stimulated by the example of American girls, who obtained the means of education by their own manual industry, and ended by becoming teachers of the highest class. Her parents were delighted with her diligence and perseverance, and did what they could to aid her; never suspecting that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she worked onwards and upwards, with hands and mind, and soon found pleasure in the development itself.
Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she would give the preference to a merchant of good character, who was in very prosperous circumstances. She was aware that such a marriage would be a great advantage to them; and she loved them so much, that she wished her beauty could be the means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing. She was always thinking to herself, “He never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers, tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look so uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more like Mr. Vernon! I should like to oblige my good father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with humming to herself:
“There’s nothing half so sweet in life
As Love’s young dream.”
When the time came for a definite answer to the merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep school than marry. They looked at each other and sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the memory of her heart.
The prospect of owning a farm, combined with an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward attracted them to the far West. The grandeur and freedom of Nature in that new region, the mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination experienced a new birth in poetry, as the heart experiences religion. All that she had previously known of beauty seemed tame and cold compared with the wild charm of that improvised scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring, but it had no sympathy with the human soul, which longed for more responsive companionship, more intimate communion. The maiden needed a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated her own. In such moods, the looks and tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness. At times, she longed inexpressibly to know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences of the poor country girl, whom his influence had led into the regions she never dreamed of before. Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile, and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise, the abrupt termination of her long dream might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived English emigrant visited her father’s farm. He came from Mrs. Barton’s neighbourhood, and in the course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr. Vernon’s son and daughter were both married. Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her disappointment from the observation of others; and her mother had the good sense to forbear saying, “I told you so.” No conversation passed between them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moonlighted solitude of the prairie for a long time, and thought the expression of the scene never seemed so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a dream of early youth; and only a dream.”
She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago the next day, to attend to her school. In another department of the school, was a teacher from New England, a farmer’s son, who had worked with his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in the winter, till he had become a scholar of more than common attainments. He taught school during the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday, not because he was too indolent to perform manual labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God had formed him for it. He loved the occupation, and was therefore eminently successful in it. This young man had for some time been in love with Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement from her. But there is much truth in the old adage about the facility of catching a heart at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history, science, and ethics. But though he was unlike Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise; and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly, Sibella became aware that his society furnished pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married. Being desirous to purchase land and build a house, they continued to earn money by teaching. The desired home, with its various belongings, seemed likely to be soon completed, without great expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy. In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps no combination of circumstances more favourable to happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home, practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the necessity of doing it with one’s own hands. Those who have homes prepared for them by hired architects, gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot begin to imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one’s self. William was always planning bridges, arbours, and fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub, or vine, without marking it to be removed to the vicinity of their cabin. She told him all about her early love-dream, and said she should always cherish a grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved such a powerful agent to wake up the dormant energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now, dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all, that is no great change for an Eglantine.” He smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic as she was. He was poetic in his deeds. His young wife often found a bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her pillow, when she woke, or in her plate, when they seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made an arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on horseback to visit their future homestead. It was shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine bush was placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour with the sweet breath of its foliage. The first time Sibella saw it, she looked at him archly, and said, “So you are not jealous of that foolish dream, dear William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers on graves; and this shall be sacred to the memory of a dream. Ah, what a bright little cluster of Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what you call them in Old England,” said he; “but in New England we name them Ladies’ Delights, though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic Edward preferred the Eglantine; but this is an especial favourite with your practical William. I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at all seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers. If I were like you, I should say it was the efflorescence of Yankee character.” She clapped her hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You are growing poetic. I will name your little favourite the Yankee’s Flower; and that will be myself, you see; for I am the Yankee’s Flower.” She looked into his honest eyes affectionately, and added, “There is one Yankee character who is a Lady’s Delight.”