MARY NORRICE.
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BY JEANNIE DEANE.
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Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by, like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a feeling of brightness gone!
It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free. Another autumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful measure over the graves where human flowers are meekly sleeping—then saw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in the grave. Alas! that one so pure, so good as thou wert, should lie there! Alas! for thee, sweet Mary Norrice!—and yet joy for thee! Joy! joy for thee!
“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.
For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character. If there was any fault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.” Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like, sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.
Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice was hushed—but often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star, I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”
One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric of love.