"when we two parted in silence and tears,
half broken-hearted, to sever for years,
pale grew thy cheek, and cold, colder thy kiss."
—byron.
they have wandered down once more by the river-side where first he told her how he loved her. to-night, again the moon is shining brightly, again the stream runs rippling by, but not, as then, with a joyous love-song; now it sounds sad as death, and "wild with all regret," as though mourning for the flowers—the sweet fond forget-me-nots—that used to grace its banks.
their hands are clasped, his arm is round her; her head drooping, dejected (unlike the gay capricious molly of a few months back), is leaning on his breast.
large tears are falling silently, without a sob, down her white cheeks, because to-night they say their last farewell. it is one of those bitter partings, such as "press the life from out young hearts" and makes them doubt the good that this world conceals even in the very core of its disappointments.
"i feel as though i were losing all," says molly, in a despairing tone. "first john, and now—you. oh, how difficult a thing is life! how hard, how cruel!" yet only a month before she was singing its praises with all the self-confidence of foolish ignorant youth.
"while i am alive you do not lose me," he answers, pressing his lips to her soft hair and brow. "but i am unhappy about you, my own: at the risk of letting you think me importunate, i would ask you again to reconsider your decision, and let me know how it is you propose fighting this cold world."
unable to refuse him audibly, and still determined to adhere to her resolution to let nothing interfere with her self-imposed task, she maintains a painful silence, merely turning her head from side to side upon his chest uneasily.
"you still refuse me? do you not think, molly,"—reproachfully,—"your conduct toward me is a little cold and unfeeling?"
"no, no. do not misjudge me: indeed i am acting for the best. see,"—placing two bare white arms around his neck, that gleam with snowy softness in the moonlight against the mournful draperies that fall away from them,—"if i were cold and unfeeling would i do this?" pressing her tender lips to his. "would i? you know i would not. i am a coward too, and fear you would not look upon my plan as favorably as i do. darling, forgive and trust me."
"are you going on the stage?" asks he, after a pause, and with evident hesitation.
"why?" with a forlorn little smile. "if i were, would you renounce me?"
"need i answer that? but you are so young, so pretty,—i am afraid, my darling, it—it would be unpleasant for you."
"be satisfied: i am not thinking of the stage. but do not question me, teddy. i shall write to you, as i have promised, in six months,—if i succeed."
"and if you fail?"
"i suppose then—i shall write to you too," she answers, with a sigh and a faint smile. "but i shall not fail. after all, success will bring me no nearer to you: i shall always have the children to provide for," she says, despondingly.
"we can at least live and hope."
he draws her shawl, which has slipped to the ground, close round her, and mutely, gloomily, they stand listening to the murmuring of the sympathetic stream.
"i always think of this spot as the dearest on earth," he says, after a pause. "here i picture you to myself with your hands full of forget-me-nots. i have a large bunch of them yet, the same you gathered; faded, it is true, to others, but never so to me. they will always be as fresh in my eyes as on the evening i took them from you. 'my sweet love's flowers.' darling, darling," pressing her to his heart in a very agony of regret, "when shall we two stand here again together?"
"never," she whispers back, in a prophetic tone, and with a trembling, sobbing sigh more sad than any tears.
"give me something to remember you by,—something to remind me of to-night."
"shall you need it?" asks she, and then raising her hands she loosens all her pretty hair, letting it fall in a bright shower around her. "you shall have one little lock all to yourself," she says. "choose, and cut it where you will."
tenderly he selects a shining tress,—a very small one, so loath is he, even for his own benefit, to lessen the glory of her hair,—and, severing it, consigns it to the back case of his watch.
"that is a good place to keep it," she says, with an upward glance that permits him to see the love that lives for him in her dewy eyes. "at least every night when you wind your watch you must think of me."
"i shall think of you morning, noon, and night, for that matter."
"and i,—when shall i think of you? and yet of what avail?" cries she, in despair; "all our thought will be of no use. it will not bring us together. we must be always separate,—always apart. not all our longing will bring us one day nearer to each other. our lives are broken asunder."
"do not let us waste our last moments talking folly," replies he, calmly; "nothing earthly shall separate us."
"yet time, they say, kills all things. it may perhaps—kill—even your love."
"you wrong me, molly, in even supposing it. 'they sin, who tell us love can die,'" quotes he, softly, in a tender, solemn tone. "my love for you is deathless. beloved, be assured of this, were we two to live until old age crept on us, i should still carry to my grave my love for you."
he is so earnest that in spite of herself a little unacknowledged comfort comes into her heart. she feels it is no flimsy passion of an hour he is giving her, but a true affection that will endure forever.
"how changed you are!" he says presently; "you, who used to be so self-reliant, have now lost all your courage. try to be brave, molly, for both our sakes. and—as i must soon go—tell me, what is your parting injunction to me?"
"the kindest thing i can say to you is—forget me."
"then say something unkind. do you imagine i shall take two such hateful words as a farewell?"
"then don't forget me; be sure you don't," cries she, bursting into tears.
the minutes are flying: surely never have they flown with such cruel haste.
"come, let us go in-doors," she says, when she has recovered herself. "i suppose it is growing late."
"i shall not go in again; i have said good-bye to mrs. massereene. it only remains to part from you."
they kiss each other tenderly.
"i shall walk as far as the gate with you," says molly; and, with a last lingering glance at their beloved nook, they go silently away.
when they reach the gate they pause and look at each other in speechless sorrow. like all partings, it seems at the moment final, and plants within their hearts the germs of an unutterable regret.
"good-bye, my life, my darling," he whispers, brokenly, straining her to him as though he never means again to let her go: then, almost pushing her away, he turns and leaves her.
but she cannot part from him yet. when he has gone a hundred yards or more, she runs after him along the quiet moonlit road and throws herself once more into his arms.
"teddy, teddy," she cries, "do not go yet," and falls to weeping as though her heart would break. "it is the bitterness of death," she says, "and it is death. i know we shall never meet again."
"do not speak like that," he entreats, in deep agitation. "i know—i believe—we shall indeed meet again, and under happier circumstances."
"ah, you can find comfort!" reproachfully. "you are not half sorry to part from me."
"oh, molly, be reasonable."
"if you can find any consolation at this moment, you are not. and—if you meet any one—anywhere—and—like her better than me—you will kill me: remember that."
"now, where," argues he, in perfect sincerity, "could i meet any one to be compared with you?"
"but how shall i know it—not hearing from you for so many months?" she says this as though he, not she, had forbidden the correspondence.
"then why not take something from those wretched six months?" he says, craftily.
"i don't know. yes,"—doubtfully,—"it is too long a time. in four months, then, i shall write,—yes, in four months. now i do not feel quite so bad. sixteen weeks will not be so long going by."
"one would be shorter still."
"no, no." smiling. "would you have me break through all my resolution? be faithful to me, teddy, and i will be faithful to you. here,"—lifting her hands to her neck,—"i am not half satisfied with that stupid lock of hair: it may fall out, or you may lose it some way. take this little chain"—loosening it from round her throat and giving it to him—"and wear it next your heart until we meet again,—if indeed"—sighing—"we ever do meet again. does not all this sound like the sentiment of a hundred years ago? but do not laugh at me: i mean it."
"i will do as you bid me," replies he, kissing the slender chain as though it were some sacred relic,—and as such, indeed, he regards it,—while ready tears spring to his eyes. "it and i shall never part."
"well, good-bye really now," she says, with quivering lips. "i feel more cheerful, more hopeful. i don't feel as if—i were going to cry—another tear." with this she breaks into a perfect storm of tears, and tearing herself from his embrace, runs away from him down the avenue out of sight of his longing eyes.
