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VOL. 11.
Written at My Mothers G-iave*
BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
The trembling (lew-drops fall
Upon the shattered flowers like souls at
rest;
The stars sliine gloriously, and all,
Save me, is blest.
Mother, I love thy grave !
The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Wave o’rthy head—when shall it wave
Above thy child.
’Tis a bright bower, yet must
Its bright leaves to the coming tempest
bow:
Dear mother, ’tis the emblem dust,
Dust is on thy brow !
And I could love to die,
To leave untasted life’s dark bitter streams,
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,
And share thy dreams.
And must I linger here,
To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes of childhood dear,
With hitter tears?
Aye, must I linger here,
A lonely branch upon a blasted tree.
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee?
Oft from life's wit.hered.bower,
In still communion with the past I turn,
And muse on thee the only flower
In memory’s urn.
And when the evening pale
Bows like a mourner on the dim blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail
Around thy grave.
Where is thy spirit flown ?
I gaze above—thy look is imagined there;
I listen—and thy gentle tone
Is on the air
Ob, come, while here I press
My brow upon thy grave—and, in those
mild
And thrilling tones of tenderness,
Bless, bless thy child!
Written for the Banner of the South.
ELEANOR STAUNTON.
By A SOUTHERNER.
DEDICATED TO MILES M. FARROW, ESQ., OF
CHARLESTON, S. C.
[continued.]
WINDEMKRE PaRK, XoV. 4th
It hits overtaken me at last—the fate
so long battled with and resisted, has
overcome me at last. I love him!
Wretch that I am, I love him with all the
strength and intensity’ of my nature. I
have struggled long and earnestly against
the feeling, but it has overmastered me
at last. Still I was ignorant of its depth
or intensity until to-night. I, a wife, a
mariid woman! Oh! wretch that I am,
whither shall I flee ? Where course my
shame to hide ? All the guests still
with us were invited to a regimental ball,
given by the garrison officers, who are
shortly to be ordered to Ireland. Laura’s
mourning prevented her attendance;
Uercy made his arm bis excuse for de
fining ; Mr. Staunton very rarely attends
evening parties, and I was too unwell;
so we remained at home. Laura had
had been reading aloud, and in her se
ction occurred the quotation:
Tis better to have loved and lost
lhan never to have loved at all ”
And she paused, and said,
“Who agrees with the poet ?”
T do,” said Aunt Margaret; ‘T would
not give up the memory of affection that
°[ iCe mine to spare myself, twice over,
’he pain of losing.”
“What would you say, Mr. Howard ?”
, '- s 'o, a thousand times no!” he ex
-0 “imed, almost passionately. “Let the
:* ;,rt s ßep on forever, unconscious oi
, !lS ca pacity lor living, rather than to
"“' e it awakened to cl.ng around some
idol until each fibre is so inseperably en
twined with it that it becomes a portion
of its very life, and then, then to be
doomed to struggle forever with a memo
ry and a regret.”
“Mr. Howard discourses eloquently—
does he speak from experience ? One
must surely have endured the trial, to
describe it so vividly.” Laura spoke sa
tirically ; but I noticed that she was very
pale.
“Possibly your premises are correct,”
he replied, shrugging his shoulders in
differently, (and every trace of feeling
had disappeared from his voice); “but I
had flattered myself that I discoursed
eloquently upon all topics, even those in
which I could not possibly be experienced.
Nevertheless, we will discuss the point
some other time; just now lam going
out to indulge in a cigar.”
A short while after, some coffee was
brought in; Mr. Staunton came in, and
Percy likewise.
Shall I make I you a cup of
coffee, Percy ?” I asked, as I handed some
to Mr. Staunton.
“Yes, if you will be so kind, as it is
probably the last cup you will make for
me for many a long day.”
“Why, Mr. Howard, 1 hope you have
no thought of leaving us,” said Mr.
Staunton, quickly.
“Yes, sir, I am afraid I must. A pack
et sails from Southampton in a fortnight
for India; and I expect to take passage
in her, as I have some business there
that I could not very well trust to my
agent.”
A feeling of the keenest agony struck
through my heart, at these words, and,
for a few moments, I was unconscious of
all chat transpired around me, and, in the
intensity of my feelings, I clenched my
hand until a delicate Sevres china cup
that I was holdingi shivered in my grasp
All that weary evening I acted my part
like one in a dream. I played chess with
Mr. Staunton, sang with Laura, and was
as gay as the happiest wife in all merry
England.
Percy has been persuaded to postpone
his departure indefinitely. I said nothing
to persude him to stay; but my weak
heart thrilled joyously when he yielded
to the wishes of the rest.
By a strong effort I controlled myself
while I was down stairs ; but here, in the
solitude of my own ro«m, the mask is
laid aside. All the weary hours of the
night I have spent restlessly pacing the
floor, until now the grey light, strug
gling through my closed window, warns
me that another day of wretchedness and
hypocrisy lies before me.
I did not realize how dearly I loved
him, until I knew that we had to part ;
and the knowledge came so suddenly that
I was unprepared to meet it. I know
when he leaves Windemere, I will have
seen him for the last time. What is now
the result of uncontrollable circumstances
will then be deliberate sinfulness, i see
the whole wretchedness of my position,
and will strive, and do wish, to act up
rightly. But, in the midst of my best
resolves, the thought tiiat we will so soon
be parted forever comes over me, and
undoes all that I had done. For the
second time in my life, duty has become
a hideous monster that, shinking from
with a sickening dread, I must yet clasp
to rnv breast.
After a bitter struggle, I have resolved
what to do. I shall treat him as coldly
as I can, while he remains here, and
when be is gone —ah me! I can look no
farther than to that bitter moment. God
give me strength to do my duty faithful
ly, however hard it may be!
Windemere Park, Nov. sth, 18—
The day has passed so drearily. 1
I hnd * ne effort to maintain the line of
| conduct that I have marked out for my
se.i most exhausting. I had to practice
two hours with Laura, at her special re
quest, some intricate German waltzes,
while each nerve was thrilling with tor
* u .
A.UGITSTA, GA., AUGUST 28, 1869.
It is quite early, but I have retired
for the night. lam so utterly wretched
that I cannot hear the light and mirth in
the drawing room. Each nerve seems to
have tripled its capacity for suffering.
Oh, how passionately I yearn for one
word of love or tenderness from him,
whom I am doomed to treat so coldly.
If my mother was only living! so that I
might weep my very heart away upon
her breast!
WINDEMERE PaRK, NoV, 6tll.
My weak and sinful wish is gratified;
and it has added a deeper shame to my
wretchedness. I thought that I could
bear it better if I knew he loved me; but
now, that the certainty is mine, I only
rebel the more wildly against the fate
that has doomed us both to a life-long
sorrow. I would be less miserable if I
knew that he was suffering less. And
yet I could not give up his love, selfish
wretch that I am.
I had spent most of the day in my
room ; but late this evening I crept down
to the library. Annette had assured
me that every one was out, either driving
or walking. I knew that Mr. Staunton
had taken Aunt Margaret out for a drive,
and that Laura had an engagement with
Mr. Stanhope. So, feeling listless and
miserable, I went into the library and
took up a book. I had not been there
long, when the door was opened softly,
and Percy cam u in.« I started slightly,
and said:
“I thought you were out, riding ?”
•‘1 did start, but soon wearied and re
turned.”
He stood looking at me for a few mo
ments, and then, said, in his softest tones:
“Eleanor, what have I done to merit
the coldness with which you have treated
me for the last two days ?”
“I was not aware of any marked cold
ness,” I answered stifly, and untruthfully.
“Not aware of such systematic cold
ness? Eleanor, the prevarication was un
worthy of you.”
The change in his tone, and my own
nervousness and agitation, completely
overcame me; and I burst into a pas
sionate flood of tears. In an instant
Percy was at my side, all coldness gone,
and in the tenderest accents beseeching
me to be calm I strove to explain to
him that it was onty nervousness from
loss of sleep- but my voice died away in
my throat ere the sentence was half con
cluded. Nature was revenging herself
for rny long resistance of her, and I was
powerless to stay my tears, or hush the
gasping sobs that seemed to break some
ot the threads of my life. Percy, con
scious only of my distress, and forgetting
everything that should have restrained
him, threw his arms around me and ex
claimed passionately:
“Eleanor, dearest! my darling, pray
be cairn; you break my heart by this
distress. Any torture that could be in
flicted on me would be better than to see
you in tears and be powerless to comfort
vou.”
* 1
1 strove to release myself from his
grasp, and begged him to hush.
“No, my darling, the time has come for
all disguises to be laid aside. You know
too much now for the rest to be left un
said. 1 will tell you all; 1 have a right
to do so; a right bought by my long
years of patient, faithful love. You do
not know the torture it has been to me,
all these long, weary months, to be so
near you, and so completely divided ! I,
who have loved you for so many long,
weary years, the day-star of whose life
you were, I have to stand aside and see
you give everything—your love, your
life, yourself—to another. When I first
knew you, a bight, lovely child, at Leslie
Hall, I felt an affection for you that no
one else inspired. I went to college,
and returned to find you a brilliantly
'beautiful girl, whose womanhood promised
S richer, more glowing charms; and I
, loved you with a love that has but deep
ened with my advancing years. But I
was poor. You would inherit aD ample
and I was too proud to ask you
to give yourself to a penniless lover. So
I left you with my love untold, and went
to India, resolved not to return until I
could lay a fortune equal to your own at
your feet. For the first two years my
enterprises were unsuccessful; but I was
a patient laborer, and in time, when the
circle of another year was spanned, my
wildest dreams were realized. I had suc
ceeded beyond my most sanguine ex
pectations. Now, I could lay my heart at
your feet, and ask for that dear hand
without which I was worse than beggared.
I wrote two letters, one to you, and one
to your father, and counted the days that
must elapse before I could receive a re
ply. With fair winds and favorable
weather, my letters would reach you
about the tenth or eleventh of April.
I.waited, first hopefully, then patiently,
and, at last, despairingly. My letter to
you was never answered ; that to your
father was treated less mercifully, I
received an envelope containing your
wedding cards! Ah, just Heaven! what
had been my crime that so heavy a pun
ishment fell upon me ? My agony and
despair I cannot describe: I was like a
shipwrecked man. You had been the
guiding star of my life; and, in losing
you, I lost rudder, compass, and all, and
for months was driven hopelessly by the
tide of circumstances. I resolved to
expatriate myself. But my uncle's
death, and my inheritance of his estate,
necessitated my return to this country. I
came, resolving to see no one whom I
had known before. My past life was
dead and buried ; and I resored that it
should remain so. Most unexpectedly to
myself, I met you, as you remember,
and, at first, I tried to avoid you. But
Mr. Staunton’s hospitality could not be
refused; and my own weakness led me
to yield more easily; though each day
I spent in your society but strengthened
my affection, and, consequently, my
wretchedness. I have struggled against
my increasing love; and each struggle
left me but more completely in jour
power. I have told you all; I have
laid my soul bare to your gaze; and, oh
Eleanor, though you cannot love me, at
least pity me, a miserable, heart-broken
man.”
Tie ceased speaking, and I raised my
face from his bosom, where my blushes
had been hidden, and said, in a strained,
unnatural tone:
“Let me go; I have had enough.”
Whether he mistook my stifled agony
for anger, I do not know. But he in
stantly released me, and, starting to his
feet, exclaimed:
“And upon this cold and passionless
woman I have wasted such a wealth of
love!”
I laid my icy hand upon his arm, and
said:
“Ah, Percy, I have surely borne
enough—do not add another pang to my
suffering by parting from me in anger.”
The hopeless agony of my tone, or the
expression of my face, must have be
trayed to him the story ol my crimiual
weakness; lor an almost glorified light
broke over his face, as he drew my throb
bing head upon his bosom, and whispered
tenderly:
“Eleanor, rny darling, do you, indeed,
love me? Oh sweet, yet most beautiful
thought! Gladly, my darling, would I
have spared you this anguish, though
thereby I had increased my own. But,
oh, Eleanor, if the love had only come
before, when I asked for the heart that
you could then have given me before the
world!”
I could not bear that he should think
I had only lately learned to love him;
and so I told him all, the necessity for
my marriage, his letter destroyed un
read. and all my long struggle to live down
the love that is now the master passion
of my soul.
1 had but imbued my confession, when
voices in the court yar 1 warned me that
the others had returned; and, feeling,
for the first time, the necessity of con
cealing my actions, I hastily left the room,
anxious to avoid the main entrauce,
where I was sure of meeting someone. 1
went out of a side door, that leads through
an ante-room to a private stair case. As
l entered this room, I heard a stifled
groan; and, following the direction of the
sound, I saw' Laura Templeton crouching
down beside a window seat, her hands
clenched, and an ashy pallor overspread
ing her face. I hastened to her, and
would have raised her, but she motioned
me aside ; and, while I stood irresolute
for a few moments, she rose, and said:
“Excuse my impatience; but I had
such an intolerable pain in my head—l
had just entered the room when it seized
me.”
I offered to assist her to her room, but
she declined my aid, and said she was 4
better ; and I, overpowered by my grief,
was only too glad to hasten to my own
room, and hide my wretchedness from all
eyes. Oh! that I had read letter.
And yet, it would not have saved me
from the necessity of my marriage. My
fate had to be fulfilled. But oh! the
agony it has cost me , and, alas! not me
alone!
Wixdemep.e Park, Nov. 9th.
I have been confined to my room for
the last three days, by a severe indisposi
tion. And during the long, still hours, I
have learnt what I must do. Like the
voices of assuring angels, have come
back to me, all the expressions of confi
dence in me that I have ever heard from
my husband’s lips. And shall I prove
myself unworthy of his trust? No. I
shall see Percy once more, and tell him
that we must part. I owe that duty to
my husband.
God will surely give me strength to
accomplish that; and then, maybe, if He
is merciful, He will recall the life that is
so very bitter—take back the soul that
chafes so against its destiny, and is all
too weak to struggle againt temptation.
Win demere Park, Nov. 16th.
I have accomplished my purpose.
Percy leaves to-morrow night; and I, I
am, of all creatures, the most miserable.
I felt that I must end the struggle
that was wearing out my life; so I sent
Annette to Percy, with a request that be
would not go out shooting after break
fast, as I wished to speak to him. After
breakfast, I saw everybody disperse, and
then, with a sinking heart, I entered the
library. Percy rose to meet me, and
put out his arms. I put them aside, and,
nerving myself by a strong effort, I said:
“Percy you know that I am a married
woman—a wife, and that it is sinful in me
to love aD3 r one but my husband I cannot
control my heart—it has passed out of my
keeping; but I can control 1113- actions ,
and m3 7 object in seeing 3 t ou this morning
is to say that we must part, and that in
stantly.”
“Part, Eleanor! you surely are not in
earnest. Do you know the wretchedness
that you are dooming us to Have I not
enough to bear, in knowing that 3 r ou are
another man’s wife, without being denied
the only pleasure that is left to me—
that of seeing you daily ?”
“I am odL 7 too sadly in earnest, Percj’.
It is not honorable or right that we
should meet now. You must leave me,
and forever.”
I raised my face as I spoke, and the
sorrowful look in his eyes almost over
came niy resolution.. He saw the waver
ing in rny face, and, taking both nr»\
hands, besought me to be merciful to
him, it not to m3-self.
Ilis earnest, passionate pleading, I will
not, I dare not, write over. Even now,
the remembra :ce of it tempts m > to
yield. At ia-rt [ could bear it no longer,
and became a pleader in m3' turn. I
i drew my hands away from him, and,
1 sink mg on my knees at hi feet, l said :
“Percy, have mercy upon me, and heL
No. £4.
