The Highland Weekly News

Original Story
Written for the News.

The Girl-Friends.

BY MARY D.

CHAPTER III.

Two weeks sped swiftly away, and brought the bridal morn of Alice Deane. At Philip's request, Elsie Neal and Nellie Lyle, were among the invited guests. When the evening came, a carriage was sent to bring them.

'Tell him that I cannot come,' said Elsie to her friend, as they stood by the carriage. 'It is better to stay apart, since we are lost to each other. I have almost faltered, Nellie,' she murmured tearfully. 'The wish is strong within me to see him once more; but it is my duty not to go.' And turning sadly from her young friend, Elsie went to her room, to weep over her dead hopes.

Away sped the carriage over the smooth road. But Nellie would have been happier if Elsie had been with her. The sad young face, the deep mournful eyes, haunted her all the way.

Philip was waiting for them when she arrived. He was disappointed when he missed Elsie; but smiled, a strange smile, when Nellie delivered her message. He was a man who did not like display. In the bride's room, he placed her hand in that of her chosen husband, and bid her be happy. They passed down the stairway, into the midst of the bridal throng: and the sweet, solemn words were spoken. Then and there, commenced their life-union, fraught with so much hope and joy, at the beginning, becoming serene and holy toward the close. There was a disparity of years between them. But what mattered it, if they were only twin-souled.

Philip sought Nellie, and presented her to his sister; and their brief acquaintance on the bridal night soon terminated in the tenderest friendship. But Philip Deane was very sad that night, even when all seemed gay and happy. His face wore a troubled, restless look, and very early he was missed from the bridal throng. An hour afterwards, he stood in the doorway of widow Neal. Her voice trembled when she bade him be seated. Elsie's cheek grew flushed, and the lustrous light came to her eyes.

Philip did not sit down. 'I have come,' he said, 'to plead once more for my own happiness, and that of your child.'

'Mr. Deane, I had hoped that you would not trouble me on this subject again;' said the low voice of Mrs. Neal. 'I am afraid to trust my child to you, proud, impulsive, and passionate as I know you to be. I have always hoped to see her a Christian woman, and united to a good man.'

'You will not give her to me, then?' he asked.

'If you would but change your reckless, wayward life, you would be welcome to my only child; and I would place her hand in yours trustfully.'

The tears came to the fond mother's eyes. She looked upon her Elsie's trembling form, her wistful face; and then upon her lover, proud, handsome, and in the prime of his life, and she thought how hard it would be for them to part. But a voice seemed speaking to her—a voice she had loved to hear in life, and always obeyed. It seemed to plead, in thrilling tones, 'Do not give our darling to this man. Their passion, their pride, would lead them down to death. Let him become worthy of our treasure, ere you place it in his keeping.'

O pride! pride! What a tyrant thou art! but Philip's love was mightier; else he had never come to plead again. He did not answer Mrs. Neal; but folding her child to his heart, he pressed kisses on her lips; and without a word passed hurriedly from the house, and was soon in the road on his horse. As he turned to take a farewell look, he saw a picture, that haunted him all the days of his absence. In the shadowy moonlight, stood Elsie; her white arms stretched towards him. Her voice floated to his ear, in tones of thrilling tenderness, which he never forgot.—'Philip, dear Philip, speak to me once more! Tell me you will come back to claim your wife!'

'If God spares me, and I become a better man, I will come back to you, my darling,' he answered.

The guests were not all gone when he reached his home; but he appeared not in their midst again. He went noiselessly to his room, and laid down upon his bed to sleep.

Oh, blessed balm for wounded hearts! In sleep we forget our sorrows, and lost joys return. The presence of loved ones lingers near. We see their smiles, feel the thrilling clasp of their hands. We wander together in the old familiar paths. We feel sure they are with us for we hear their sweet voices; we see the dear forms: and listen to the echo of footsteps, which only could be theirs. But the morn comes, and we awaken to all life's mournful realities. The thrilling touch, the beautiful smile, the love-lit eye—all, all, are gone! Oh, in the bright Omega of that long sleep, which awakens not again to this world, will they all come again—come in their beauty, in their youth, with their tears all wiped away, and their faces radiant with joy! We cannot tell! We can only hope—only trust—only pray.

In the still midnight hour, a white-robed form hovered near Philip's bed. A soft hand pushed back the heavy dark hair from his forehead, and tears—a sister's tears—fell there. He awakened from his sleep. He comprehended all. 'Is this the sad vigil you keep dear Alice, on your bridal night?'

'Oh, brother! it may never be again that I can come here! Perhaps it is the last time my tears may fall upon your brow—the last time I may ever watch you sleep. To-morrow you will leave me. I will bid you good-bye, now, brother. I cannot bear to see you go. It were better that we part now.'

Their arms were around each other; the face of each was wet with the other's tears.

When the morning came, Philip was gone. Then their old home was closed, the land rented out, and Alice did not feel sorry to leave the house in which she had lived all her life. Philip was gone, and it had no charms left for her. Trustfully she walked by her husband's side in her new home, and in his tenderness she was comforted.

And Lily soon learned to love her. This was a new joy to the young wife's heart. Tenderly her spirit yearned over the motherless girl;—tenderly Lily loved her in return. They went one evening, to visit her mother's grave. Alice looked at Lily, then at her father. There was but a slight resemblance between them. Then her eyes fell upon the green mound. Mr. Warner noticed this, and seemed to read her thoughts.

'She is like her mother, Alice,' he said. 'Lily has her mother's smile.'

They sat down near the grassy mound. A sudden tenderness must have sprung up in the child's heart. Sitting at the feet of Alice, she lifted her eyes to her face, and the sweet words, 'My Mother!' fell from her lips. Alice thought of the beautiful lines of the poetess, and in a voice of deep emotion she repeated them:

'Thou art not mine upon thy sweet lips lingers
Thy mother's smile—
In the deep eyes so tearfully upraising
Their light to mine,
I deem the spirit of thy mother gazing
To my soul's shrine.

They ask me with their meek and soft beseeching,
A mother's care
They ask a mother's kind and patient teaching—
A mother's prayer.

Not mine, yet dear to me—fair, fragrant blossom
Of a fair tree,
Crushed to the earth in life's first glorious summer—
Thou'rt dear to me!

Child of the lost, the buried and the sainted,
I'll call thee mine—
Till fairer still, with tears and sins unstained,
Her home be thine!'