MARY NORRICE.

———

BY JEANNIE DEANE.

———

Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by, like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a feeling of brightness gone!

It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free. Another autumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful measure over the graves where human flowers are meekly sleeping—then saw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in the grave. Alas! that one so pure, so good as thou wert, should lie there! Alas! for thee, sweet Mary Norrice!—and yet joy for thee! Joy! joy for thee!

“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.

For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character. If there was any fault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.” Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like, sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.

Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice was hushed—but often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star, I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”

One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric of love.

“Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would choose some other song.

“It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is very disagreeable to me.”

I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said proudly and with flashing eyes —

“I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have made, shall lure my heart from the faith of my mother.”

And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said:

“The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and Father in Heaven, help me! help me!”

Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.

“Claude! dear Claude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven.

There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness, that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human ill.

Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the following hastily written letter:

“You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I am just about to commit matrimony—only think of that! In one little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey, of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will “haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit of a ceremony. Au revoir, Jeannie dear, come to your own,

“Mary.”

I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but I was surprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—learn to love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature, learn to love the man who was to be her husband!

The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice.

The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”

Arthur Monterey was a very handsome man, but there was a stern expression on his proudly curved lip, and about his high intellectual forehead, which made me fear for Mary. In the few weeks of gayety which followed their marriage, I saw but little of him, though when with us, he seemed very proud of his wife’s rare beauty and fascinations, and was wholly devoted to her.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away, and in the autumn I received a letter from Mary, saying that her husband was traveling, and begging me to come to her. There was a terrible feeling at my heart as it looked once more into those once merry eyes, now so large and sad—and somehow a thought of death as I kissed those lips so mournful and resigned in their expression.

One evening we sat together in Mary’s room, at twilight—her head rested on my shoulder, one pale hand supporting her soft cheek, as the other swept the chords of her harp, with her own peculiar grace and magic. Mournful and low was the prelude; and sad, and spirit-like the dear voice which sang once more to me “Ave Sanctissima!” Midnight had passed, and yet we sat by the open window—the moonlight falling in through the curtains of snowy muslin, its beams as pure, as spiritual as the frail creature who sat beside me, and whose face I fancied grew paler in its light.

We stood within the church again—and Mary’s robes were snowy white; but her brow was paler than before—the long dark lashes fell upon a lifeless cheek—and the pale hands were crossed upon a hushed breast.

With mourning for the young and fair, solemnly echoed the deep tones of the organ through the high arches; and there were white faces, and stilled sobs around the coffined—beautiful—the coffined—dead.

In a package directed to me, which I opened after her death, Mary wrote these lines —

“I trusted in ideal worth, dear Jeannie—I have laid my heart’s best and holiest affections as a sacrifice upon the altar of my religion. I am dying now, and promise me you will bring some of those deep-blue violets from my mother’s grave, and plant them on my own—then I shall sleep. My husband has been kind to me—but his love is not that for which my heart has yearned.

“If you do not think it wrong, Jeannie dear, you may give my bible to cousin Claude, that same bible which he gave me so long ago. I have placed a curl among its leaves—in Heaven I shall be his wife—there are no tears there.”

Bitterly did Claude Norrice weep as he held that long bright curl first in the sunshine, then in the shade; but there was a glance of joy in his dark religious eye as he murmured, “Mine in Heaven—Mary Norrice! in Heaven—mine forever!”

I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gone home!

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,

The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”