Chapter XI: End of Uncle Daniel’s Story

“Well, they were married at last, in the spring time, when the apple trees were all in bloom, and the young leaves coming out in the woods. There was no wedding to speak of, for Sarah, who was always so full of life and loved company more than any thing, insisted on being married almost alone, with no one but the family by. This surprised us all and made a good deal of hard talk in the neighborhood, for all her old mates insisted on it that Sarah was putting on airs, because her lover was a city gentleman and rich. There was no truth in this, for instead of putting on airs the dear gal appeared to grow more and more humble as the day came on, and it seemed as if the saddest part of her life was just before she married a man that I am sure she loved better than all the world beside.

“Hetty, too, did nothing but cry—not that this was done before folks, but you could see it in her heavy eyes and heavy step too. Poor gal, she really seemed afraid of Mr. Bentley, and would turn away from him sometimes with a scared look that no one could account for, for he was gentle and pleasant as could be to us all.

“Well, as I said before, they were married one spring morning, with the sunshine all around them, and the breath of the apple blossoms coming in at the window. There was no bridesmaid, for Hetty would not stand up in spite of all we could say; and, except my little wife, she was the only young person there.

“That was one of Sarah’s beautiful mornings—I mean as regards herself. She had thrown off all down-heartedness, and came down-stairs in her white muslin dress, that floated around her like a cloud, looking more like the angels we see in pictures than any thing else. She had a little cluster of crab-apple blossoms in her bosom, and a wreath of elder flowers and cherry blossoms around her head. She was handsome—yes, Gillian, I think she was almost as handsome as you are now, on the day of her wedding.

“It’s one of the pleasantest things in life to see a bright, wholesome girl like her, brimming over with life, and with a will that no force could control, tamed down by love, with those soft shadows under her eyes, and the eyes themselves full of mist. I never loved my sister half so much as I did on that day. When she turned from the minister, and looked up to him with those eyes so mournful and tender the bridegroom kissed her forehead. I did not wonder at it, for it seemed as if she had just risen from a sacrament-table, with the holy wine on her lips, which it would be wicked to touch.

“I think Hetty felt like this, for when the bride went up to her and reached out her arms with a smile, I shall never forget how the poor gal clung around her with both arms, and kissed her neck, her dress, and her hands with a deep burst of crying; but when Sarah would have kissed her sister’s lips she shrunk away trembling all over, and sobbing out blessings on her dear, dear sister, to which the old man answered amen, as if he had been in meeting.

“After this, Hetty and the bride went up-stairs together, and stayed a long time. When Sarah came down in her travelling-dress, ready to leave us forever, Hetty stayed behind, and we did not see her again that day.

“As Mr. Bentley’s carriage was driving away, Sarah looked back so longingly to the old house that I beckoned the driver to stop, and went up to say good-by once more.

“‘Dan,’ says she, as I came up, ‘Dan, that’s a good brother, bring me a handful of lilacs and some snow-balls, from the old bushes, under Hetty’s window: they will be something to remind me of home.’

“Mr. Bentley was ready to spring out and gather them for her. But she said, with one of her smiles that was worth a sermon any day,

“‘No—no, let Dan bring them now; and you shall gather flowers for me all the rest of our two lives.’

“I brought the lilacs and the snow-balls, and she gathered them up so lovingly in her hands, it made my heart swell, I can tell you.

“He drove away slowly at first, for Sarah kept looking back toward the house, and we all stood in the porch sending blessings after her—old-fashioned, honest blessings that followed her to the grave I am certain. But as they came near the hill, where the bridegroom had almost lost his life, and his poor cousin was brought away a corpse, the driver whipped up his horses, and they swept over the precipice like lightning, and in that spot we lost sight of them.

“After this we were very lonesome at the homestead. Sarah wrote long letters to us from her grand house in the city; but we missed her dreadfully. Sometimes a little private letter to Hetty came in the larger one, but we never knew what was in it: some secret always rested between the two.

“Once, in the first year, Hetty went down to York, but she stayed at Aunt Mary’s, only going now and then to see her sister.

“When we asked the reason of this, Hetty said that Sarah had so much company, and lived in such a grand way, that she felt out of place there. Sarah was just the same kind-hearted, noble creature, but Hetty was more comfortable with Aunt Mary.

“I have little more to tell you, Gillian, about your mother; for, with the exception of one or two visits to New York, when I put up at her house, and found myself as welcome as a robin in the spring, we saw little of each other. The old gentleman went to see her—that was after you were born—and came home delighted.

“At last, when you were a little more than two years old, Sarah and her husband came to the homestead again.”

“Yes,” said Gillian, who had listened to this long story with deep attention, “yes, I remember that, and I remember how she looked. It seems like a picture—the old place and all. But where did my parents go after that?”

“They went to Europe not three months from that time. It was a sudden thing, I am sure, for the mail that brought us this letter brought also a paper, in which we found that they had sailed. The old man felt a little hurt at this, I think, for he was getting so infirm and childish that any thing like neglect from those he loved wounded him. Not long after this he died, and mother followed him in three days, as old folks are apt to do. So they never lived to be disappointed by not receiving but one letter from sister Sarah, after she sailed for foreign parts; or to grieve over the news of her death, when it came to us, as if we had been strangers, in an open newspaper.”

“And this is all you know about my poor mother?” said Gillian, painfully disappointed. “It is a great deal, certainly, but not all I expected. Papa so seldom speaks of her; and after that one evening, in this same old homestead, I remember nothing, for it seems they put me in a convent-school directly after we reached Italy, and when I came out my mother lay in the Campo Sante at Naples.”

“Have you seen her grave, niece Gillian?” inquired the farmer.

“Yes, my Italian servant—one who had been hired in the family when we first went to Italy—often took me to one of those heavenly flower-nooks in which the people of Naples lay their dead to sleep, and told me that my mother was buried beneath the roses there.”

“And you read the tombstone?”

“A cross of marble—nothing more; but that was so like my father: you know he never could endure to register his joy or grief before the world. This is all I know of my mother’s death.”

“It is strange,” said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, “but your father will not talk of her?”

Gillian answered, with tender sadness,

“Oh, that is like him too, dear, sensitive papa! I have often heard him say that a human soul never dies, and should only be spoken of as something too sacred for every-day speech.”

Daniel Hart sank down in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. Up to this time a vague hope that his sister might have left some loving message for him had unconsciously floated through his mind.

“Still,” said the good man, “still I will ask him more about her in the morning.”

Gillian shook her head. “I think if there is any thing that will give you pleasure, he will speak of his own accord,” she said; “if not, the idea that he has inspired such a hope will give him pain. Let us wait, dear uncle.”

Uncle Daniel gave up his hope with another profound sigh; and Gillian arose from her stool at his feet, saddened, as if she too had partaken of a wish that was destroyed.