Part 5

Years rolled around, and when I was a little girl I used to hear my mother talk of her cousin Agnes Morton—Agnes Bernstorf she never called her—and listen with childish eagerness to the letters she constantly received from her. Madame Bernstorf though willful, was warm-hearted; and she never failed to write regularly to my mother and aunts, and cherish for them the warmest feelings. We never knew, except by inference, what her circumstances had proved to be on her removal to her husband’s home. Her letters, though affectionate, were short; and she never entered into details of her situation. One child, a daughter, she spoke of—her little Ida; and my first letter was written to this little stranger cousin. Appended to each letter of our mothers was always a tiny, childish scrawl; and from childhood to girlhood the correspondence continued, until we began to write _whole letters_ to each other.

Although Madame Bernstorf was so reserved and laconic in her letters, especially about her domestic affairs, it was evident she wished to keep up her connection with home and home friends. She seldom mentioned her husband’s name in her letters; and when she did, it was but casually. Trouble she had, it was certain, for her letters gave evidence of it in the serious tone which they breathed. There was no allusion to certain, specified trouble, but there was a lack of hope and brightness in them. Several children she gave birth to, but the letters announcing their different births, were followed a few months after with announcements of their deaths. This might have caused sorrow to her; she never expressed it so, however; on the contrary, each letter announcing the death of a child, was filled with expressions of thankfulness, that they were taken from a world of trouble and trials. Actual poverty she could not be suffering from, for the income of her little property was semi-annually remitted to her; the principal was small, but it was left in trust by her father, settled upon her children, and only the income of it could she have. It was not much, it is true, but it was sufficient to keep actual want from her door we felt certain. Bernstorf, her husband, had been a wild, visionary young man, though fascinating in his manners and appearance, and from this remembrance of him her family argued that disappointment had attended her obstinate imprudent marriage, and mortification and pride prevented her acknowledgment of it. Ida’s letters, as she grew older, gave marks of cultivation and refinement. She wrote of her studies, to which her time seemed to be devoted. She spoke of the beauty of their country home; from that we supposed that if they were not enjoying wealth, they were above want. Isolated seemed to be their situation, for she never alluded to friends around her. When she was about sixteen her father died; but Madame Bernstorf announced his death with calmness, as though she had been prepared for it, although none of her previous letters mentioned his sickness. But at last came letters of deep agony, only a few months following the one announcing her husband’s decease; one from Madame Bernstorf, an unfinished one, to my Aunt Miriam, who had taken my mother’s place in the correspondence, enclosed in a few lines from poor Ida, wet with tears, and expressive of the greatest wretchedness, announcing her mother’s death. Madame Bernstorf’s letter had been written in evident anticipation of death.

“I know I am dying, dear Miriam,” she wrote, “trouble and anxiety of mind have at last worn out my poor body. I have been hoping my strength would last, even so long that I might see my kindred once more before I die; but all hope is, I fear, gone. How sunny was my life previous to my marriage. Not a care had I. Since that unhappy event all has been bitterness. But I must not murmur; I consulted only my own will and selfish desires, and I have suffered as I deserved. Hermann Bernstorf, whom I idolized with all the wild devotion of an ill-regulated spirit, proved to be a neglectful, careless, and at last an intemperate husband; and his death was, indeed, a relief to me. On my death-bed I can at last admit it, although mortification and pride have heretofore kept me silent. Ah! Miriam, I cannot tell you how much I have suffered. I hoped my cup of sorrow was drained to the dregs; but I find the bitterest drop remaining, the leaving of my child alone in life. I cannot bring my mind to look calmly on my approaching death. Oh! how wildly have I besought Heaven to spare me, if only for a few months, that I might see her safe with my own family; but in vain—death creeps on apace, and I feel something must be done. Ida cannot be left here. With my husband’s family, I have never had any intercourse; he had forfeited their countenance and regard long before his marriage with me; pride has always kept me from seeking them. I have no one to look to for aid but in my own family. Will you not, dear Miriam, take charge of my child? The little property my father so wisely provided for his grandchild, will prevent her from being an actual dependent upon any one; but she will need, when I am gone, a home—some one to protect and love her. She is a delicate flower, and needs nurturing. I know you will grant this request of a dying woman, and though comforted by this knowledge, remorse embitters even this comfort, when I recall, that I have given only to you and your family trouble and vexation, while from you I have always received kindness and doting indulgence.

“I write with pain and difficulty. Ida does not dream of her approaching trouble—her mild, dove-like eyes beam on me hopefully, and she talks of _our_ future with certainty. I cannot tell her the sad truth. Oh, Father above! why am I thus sorely afflicted?”

Ida’s letter told us her mother had been found senseless over this letter, and only revived a few moments to bless her child. She then yielded up her tried spirit into the hands of the Wise Power who had first gifted her with every worldly blessing, then, when those blessings were abused, had visited her with every earthly trouble.

There was no hesitation on my Aunt Miriam’s part; immediately were letters from all of us dispatched to welcome the orphan amongst us, and proper means employed to bring her safely to us. To our amazement my Aunt Mary and Uncle Walter, upon hearing of Madame Bernstorf’s death and application to Aunt Miriam, insisted upon adopting Ida themselves. They had but one child, a son, who was finishing his studies at an eastern university. An orphan niece of Aunt Mary’s, a wealthy heiress, Adelan Lee, resided with them; but my aunt urged she had no daughter, and Ida seemed, she said, providentially provided for them. She knew of her husband’s early love for Madame Bernstorf, but, with angelic singleness of heart, she persisted in claiming Ida, because she felt it would be gratifying to him. We did not wonder at Uncle Walter’s devotion to his wife, when we saw this decided proof of her pure, confiding, self-forgetting spirit.

Ida at last arrived. She remained with me a few weeks before going to my uncle’s mountain home, which was situated in a romantic county quite in the interior of the state. We renewed during this visit the declarations of friendship we had expressed by letters. She was a beautiful creature—totally unlike her mother. Her person was tall, but graceful and finely proportioned. She had a great quantity of beautiful hair, of that pure Madonna, auburn tint painters delight in. Her complexion was exquisitely clear, and one could well fancy when looking at her, why her mother had called her a “delicate flower;” delicate and fragile indeed did she seem. Her eyes were deep and melting in their expression. I never could decide on their color; sometimes they seemed a soft, dark gray, sometimes an auburn brown, like her hair; but their expression was truly poetic. There was a great _naïveté_, and tender pathos in her manner and countenance, that was bewitching; a total disregard of self, and an innate desire to contribute to every one’s comfort. Her mother had evidently cultivated in her daughter the qualities her own character needed. Poor girl! she was overwhelmed with sorrow for her mother’s death, but was filled with gratitude for our kindness. My aunt and uncle came to the city for her, and greeted her with parental fondness, which quite encouraged her, and softened the regret she felt at parting with me. The journal commences at the first day of her arrival at her new home, and will tell her story better than I can.

IDA’S JOURNAL.

_Rockland Hill_, —, —.

Here I am in my new home. Angel spirit of my mother! are you indeed hovering around your child, as in your last moments you assured me you would? When alone I fancy her near me, and my bitter, heart-aching sobs are soothed.

How all my sad forebodings have been dispelled. Though filled with grief for my mother’s loss, I feel I am not without friends. My new father and mother, as they insist upon calling themselves, are indeed kind to me. The husband is still a very handsome man, though past middle age, and “Aunt Mary,” as she permits me to call her—for “mother” I cannot say—is gentle and lovely in both person and mind. She treats me with all the affectionate tenderness of a mother. When we arrived at this beautiful place she introduced me to her niece Adelan, a bright, merry-looking girl, about my own age; and on showing me to my apartment, which is a beautifully furnished room, she threw open a door, which led into a fine large room, handsomely furnished also, with piano, harp and guitar, a large well chosen library, and writing and work-tables, with a number of comfortable chairs and lounges. The windows of this delightful room opened on a balcony that commanded a full view of the high mountains, which rise abruptly on the opposite side of the mountain stream, which dashes darkly, but brightly along at the foot of the lawn that leads from beneath our windows.

“This,” said Aunt Mary, “is Adelan’s study and yours. That door opposite yours leads to Adelan’s room, and here you are both free to come, whenever you wish, secure from interruption. These are your own apartments, subject to your own control. Adelan has often wished I had a daughter to cheer her solitary hours—now Providence has kindly bestowed upon me a daughter.”

Both aunt and niece tenderly caressed me when my grateful tears began to flow, and tried all in their power to dispel every feeling of restraint. If I am not content here it will be my own fault—were it not for the agonizing recollection that weighs on me like lead, that never again on earth am I to see my mother, I should even be happy. But, Father above, grant unto me a spirit of resignation; let me not grieve these kind friends by my wretchedness; teach me that in another world we shall meet again.

* * * * *

My mother spent all her childhood and girlhood at this beautiful place. My Uncle Walter’s father lived here, and this was her home for many years. How often have I heard her describe every place about it. Aunt Mary tells me the house is different, and that some changes have been made in the arrangement of the grounds. My aunt brought her husband a handsome fortune, which enabled him to put up a fine, commodious mansion-house on the estate, and throw more of the land into the immediate grounds of the house.

Mountains surround us on all sides. A rapid, dashing stream rolls along some distance from the house, and an undulating lawn sweeps down from the back part of the house to it. It is a wild, romantic spot. This morning on awakening I threw on my dressing-gown, and passing through “our study,” as Adelan calls our pleasant room, stepped out on the balcony. It was early morn, and I watched the curling mists sweep up the sides of these bluish green hills, forming themselves into fantastic shapes, as they felt the penetrating heat and light of the sun. They curled, waved, rolled together, and as the sun rose higher, beaming upon them, they gradually melted away. I gazed with an elevated spirit, then turned back to my sleeping-room, and kneeling, thanked God fervently for having made so beautiful a world. In such moments I feel my blessed mother near me, and the fancied waving of her angel wings brings gentle soothings to my wailing spirit.

* * * * *

I have been here now two months, and how quickly has sped the time. I am quite domesticated. I ride on horseback in the morning and evening with Uncle Walter; walk, sing and play duets with dear Adelan; and read with Aunt Mary. She is studying German of me, and after our lesson is over I read to her from the works of my “_vaterland_.” She is fond of books and study, and her heart responded when I read to her to-day those hopeful cheering lines of Novalis.

“Let him who is unhappy in the outdoor world—who finds not what he seeks—let him go into the world of books and art—into Nature, that eternal antique and yet eternal novelty—let him live in that _Ecclesia pressa_ of the better world. Here he will be sure to find a beloved and a friend—a fatherland and a God.”

These words sound to my ears like my mother’s strong heart words. Blessed mother! thou art ever with me!

* * * * *

We paid a visit yesterday to some very nice people, who live four or five miles off, across the mountains; and yet they are our nearest neighbors. The day passed delightfully. It was a true summer outdoor visit. There was a large family of beautiful children; fine, noble-looking boys, and bright-eyed, laughing girls. They grew fond of me, and twined their arms about me tenderly. I taught them German games, into which they entered with spirit, and I quite forgot in their shouts of merry, gleeful laughter, the heavy, tearful cloud that hung over me when I awakened in the morning. We returned by moonlight; my aunt and Adelan in the carriage, uncle and I on horseback. The road for the greater part of the way lay beside the beautiful Undine stream, that gurgles and dashes daily before my eyes, as I look from the balcony. I slackened the reins of my horse, and my uncle kindly loitered with me beside the dancing waters, whose fairy billows glittered with the moon’s silvery rays. The rich silver flood of light that came pouring down from heaven touched every wavelet that went dancing along, as if rejoicing in its snowy crest. I wished I could linger by this flashing streamlet all night, and when a turning of the road bore me from the sparkling, joyous waters, I sighed inwardly a sad, unwilling good-bye, as I would in childhood to a darling playmate—nay, to crowds of playmates—for in the tiny white-crested billows I fancied the shining locks and flashing eyes of the lovely water-nymphs; the rippling dash of the waters I told myself was their sweet spirit-talk. It was a lovely, moonlight, waking dream to me.

* * * * *

Adelan is quite a pretty girl, I think—little and delicate in form, and merry and bright as a bird. She is a sunbeam to us. She chants and warbles all the day long. Her voice is very melodious, and great care has been taken in its culture—indeed much care has been given to her education. She is a great heiress, I am told, inheriting a large property; and Lizzie, the little maiden who waits upon us, said to me this morning, as I was looking at Adelan on the lawn from my room window, that old Nancy, the nurse, had told her “Miss Adelan would marry Mr. Lewis sometime.” This “Mr. Lewis” is my aunt and uncle’s only son, who I have never seen; as he is away finishing his studies at a university. In the fall he will have completed them, and will then return to his home. A picture of him as a bright-looking, handsome boy hangs in Aunt Mary’s dressing-room. She talks of him constantly, with much affection and pride, and his letters prove that he is affectionate as well as clever in mind. Adelan has never displayed any embarrassment when talking of him. Strange if she loves him and yet preserve it so secretly from me, for she is a warm-hearted, frank creature, and innocent and artless as a young child; but Love—sad, naughty Love—teaches, even the most guileless, art.

This morning we both arose very early and wandered out in the mountain paths, far from the house, long before breakfast. Nurse Nancy would make us eat before starting, one of her white rolls, which, with a glass of the sparkling spring-water, quite invigorated us. The sun shone brightly, and the clear blue sky with its wavy, wreathy clouds were reflected in the quiet parts of the stream most vividly. As we roamed along we came to a rude bridge that spanned our beautiful stream. It was a spot of peculiar beauty—high mountains environed us, covered with tall trees of luxuriant foliage. Dashing and foaming along came the mountain waters, and as they rolled away they formed cascades in their impetuous flow. The sky above was blue; rich, heavy clouds at times obscured the brilliancy of the blessed sun; but as we paused upon the bridge, the clouds swept aside and the sun shone out brightly. The dancing, coquettish waves, as they caught the glittering sunbeams, seemed to leap along their rocky bed more joyously, and made me almost certain I could see the wild, reckless Undine spirits of the flood. I had brought my camp-stool and sketching-paper with me, for it pleases my uncle to find beside his plate at the breakfast-table sketches of our morning rambles, and this beautiful view I determined to secure for him. Adelan left me making my sketch, to gather wild flowers. She came up to me at last, with a handfull of St John’s wort, fox-glove, wild roses, and sweet violets. When I was a child and used to gather wild flowers for my mother, she would repeat to me a simple little story, which she called “Woman’s Hopes.” Adelan’s bunch reminded me of it, and as she threw herself beside me on the grass I repeated it to her.

“Some merry, laughing children were tripping along gayly, one bright summer’s morning, when they stopped to admire and gather the road-side flowers. The flowers had just awakened from their sleep and were in tears.

“‘Languish not, pretty ones,’ said the children caressingly, ‘you shall be our dearly loved flowers. We will take you home with us, give you fresh spring-water, and set you before a mirror which shall reflect your beauties.’

“One gay, vain little flower, at these bright promises, lifted up its drooping head, rolling off the sparkling dewy drops proudly, but the little humble violet sighed, for it knew its moments were numbered. A few short hours passed, and the sportive children were chasing butterflies—but the poor wild flowers! where were they? Cast aside and forgotten!”

* * * * *

Summer is fast waning—a year has passed since my blessed mother died. What agony I suffered then, and how wildly I wished for death. So lonely and cheerless seemed my future without her sweet smile and heart-cheering words. But Heaven has raised up dear friends to me, and has granted unto me a sweet peaceful frame of mind. My mother’s death has been hallowed unto me. Faith and resignation have been bestowed upon me. I see before me a reunion with her in another world. Now, my life-path is no longer gloomy, and I feel that I can rouse my suffering spirit. As my mother used to wish, I have learned to _act_ as well as _meditate_. I do not often permit myself to contemplate and brood over past sorrows. I do not permit myself even to take up this little book, unless I am sure my mind is in a healthy state; but when sad, languid feelings come over me, I rouse myself, and shake off the morbid sentimentality to which woman is so prone. “I hear the voice of my soul—thy actions, and thy actions alone, determine thy worth.”

I practice with Adelan, read with Aunt Mary, and share my uncle’s outdoor exercises, of which he is so fond; and how happy it makes me to see that they look for my coming, and feel that every occupation must be shared with me. I know my mother would smile upon me if she were alive, and feel that I had tried to discover my mission, and perform its duties. How often I repeat to myself those lines of hers, and they give me strength.

Thy earthly bonds are tightening, Thy powers are failing fast, Awake, oh! Spirit hear me, And break these chains at last.

Thy angel wings are drooping, Earth clogs them all around; The spirit’s flight is heavenward, Why then to earth art bound?

Why thou art banished heaven, ’Twill yield thee naught to know; Thy duties are before thee, Why sink to rest below?

Earth slowly gathers o’er thee, Soon, soon thou wilt be bound, And all thy heavenly beauty In death’s strong clasp be found.

The remembrance of thy heavenly life Has’t left no trace with thee? Gone, are the spirit’s longings, The sighing to be free?

Oh! raise those wings of beauty, Shake off each earthly clod, And Psyche-like uprising, Seek union with thy God!

* * * * *

Great preparations have been made—the whole house has been in a state of bustling hurry for weeks. Each one has been anxious to perform their part; and the secret of this is, that the son of the family, “the young master,” our Cousin Lewis, is to return home. To-day he is expected. The final touch has been given to every thing. I have just visited every part of the house and grounds with my uncle and aunt, to satisfy them all was right. His rooms are fairy spots. They adjoin his mother’s dressing-room—the same rooms he occupied in childhood, but newly fitted up. Adelan, Aunt Mary and myself have just completed for these rooms a set of furniture covers, of the most beautiful embroidery. Bouquets of the rarest flowers, Sandy has spared from the conservatory, for they all say “Master Lewis is so fond of flowers.” A year has passed since he visited his home—he was here just a few months before I arrived—it has been five years since he has remained any length of time at home, now he has completed his studies, and will have no need to leave his family again. He brings with him a college friend, a Mr. Turner, who will remain with him some time. I dread the change this will make in our quiet life; but I must not, it is selfish; this change, though irksome to me, brings happiness to others.

As I sit writing, I can lift my eyes and see Adelan decking her beautiful head. Her room-door is open, and she has been tripping around for the last half hour, performing her _toilette_. A grand dinner-party is to greet this arrival of our cousin and his friend, and Adelan is preparing herself for it. She does not know I am watching her. Now she holds a consultation with little Lizzie about the arrangement of a knot of ribbon, and Lizzie’s face bears such an expression of admiration and anxiety blended that it is amusing. How lovely Adelan looks; her beautiful curls sweep over her finely moulded neck and shoulders, and her bright eyes and cunning, rosy mouth have a more mischievous, saucy expression than ever. Ah! Cousin Adelan, is that little heart looking forward to the approach of a lover in this Cousin Lewis?

* * * * *