Forget Me Not/1824/The Evening Walk

It was one of those beautiful evenings which so often conclude the day, ere the refreshing coolness of spring has yielded to the fervent heats of summer, that two females, habited in the deepest mourning, left their home, and slowly proceeded down a shadowy lane, which led from their dwelling. The scene around them seemed incapable of imparting one feeling of gladness, and yet how sweetly was the landscape smiling! Nature had been refreshed by a soft vernal shower, and the birds which fluttered from tree to tree were tuning their notes to songs of grateful gladness. As they emerged from the shade of the surrounding foliage, they advanced towards a river, whose torrent was considerably swollen by the late rain; struck by the surpassing loveliness of the scene, they were induced to sit down on a fragment of rock which had fallen from the overhanging cliffs.

Twilight was fast advancing, and all around ​was still. The stream at their feet rolled on in its placid course; no sound disturbed the air, save the cawing of some neighbouring rooks, who, having been in search of their evening repast, were now seen in flights of eight or ten returning to their nests; every now and then there came a single straggler, until at last all the inhabitants of that little world seemed to be collected at their homes. Their melancholy noise by degrees was hushed, and silence reigned unbroken. "Do you ever remember a quieter or more lovely evening?" said the younger of the ladies. She that spoke was scarcely past the age of childhood—innocent and beautiful; and though the traces of recent sorrow rendered her cheek somewhat pale, yet the beam of her eye and the smile which dimpled round her mouth showed that for her there might be years of happiness yet in store. Not so her companion: in her countenance, so calm and so composed, might be read a grief of no transient nature. In the rayless eye you might discern that the heart was crushed, and that though spring and summer might return to bring gladness to the earth, yet it would bloom no more: life was become to it one cheerless waste. If there was a slight expression of despair in the face, it was blended with so much resignation as almost to render it holy.

"Calm as is all around us, dearest Fanny," ​she at last replied, "this spot, now so peaceful, has been disturbed by screams of horror, echoed to the groans of departing life, and been marred by scenes of violence and death." Her sister looked towards her, as if inquiring the meaning of these words. She thus continued: "Amongst yonder clump of trees to the left, you may discern the low white chimneys of a cottage, in which dwelt a farmer of the name of Vernon, and his wife. For many years his farm flourished around him, and the earth seemed to yield him tenfold increase for his labours; in the midst of this prosperity he died, leaving a widow, still young, and two orphan children, to deplore his loss. Caroline and Henry grew up by the side of their mother, like two fair plants. If the sometimes ungoverned spirit of Henry shot a pang through her anxious breast, it never failed to find consolation in the milder virtues of her daughter; yet, on the whole, she was a happy mother. Years rolled on, and Caroline was beyond dispute the fairest of the village maidens, and Henry one of the bravest of its youths; it was impossible for two beings to be more attached to each other than were this brother and sister. About this time, a sea-captain, of the name of Hardy, who had formerly been an inhabitant of the place, returned to settle in his native village, bringing with him an only son, a youth of about twenty. The ​mother of Edward Hardy had died while he was yet an infant: thus he had been deprived of the tender guardian of his youth—of her who would have trained him in the paths of virtue, and instilled into his mind principles of rectitude and honour. While yet a boy he had accompanied his father in his voyages, and the lawless habits and profane conversation of the sailors had produced the worst effects on his mind. Youth is seldom depraved; at first he turned with disgust from their low jests and scenes of riot and debauchery. Habit renders all things familiar; the first fine edge of shame was soon worn off, and ere long he became a partaker of what he so lately abhorred. Yet Edward was not one of those to whom vice becomes all at once familiar, and there were many redeeming points in his character. He was brave, generous, and an affectionate son. How long it might have been ere the constant contagion of bad example would have become altogether fatal to him is uncertain; his bravery might have degenerated into brutal courage; his generosity into profusion. The above-mentioned resolution of his father saved him from a fate so dreadful. There was something in the better parts of Edward's character which assimilated with that of Henry, and they soon became inseparable friends. Often at the farm, Edward had frequent opportunities ​of seeing Caroline, nor was his heart long untouched by her mild beauties. He loved, and told her so. Whatever impression the handsome face and good mien of the young sailor had made upon Caroline, she was far too wise and good to think of trusting her happiness to one who almost mocked all she had been taught to revere as holy; and when Edward applied to her mother to intercede for him, all he could obtain was a promise, that at some future period, if the protestations of amendment which he made were fulfilled, she would consent to become his wife. It is the easiest thing in the world to resolve to be good; the most difficult to become so.

"For some time Edward was all that the heart of Caroline could desire; then came not unfrequent falls from virtue, and she had often to mourn the delinquency of both lover and brother. Things were in this state, when Edward, who still remembered his former way of life, with the help of Henry, constructed a slight boat, and they not unfrequently made short fishing excursions down the river. They had one evening been absent longer than usual—it might have been such an evening as this—when the widow, taking the arm of her daughter, walked down to the river to watch for their return; they had not waited long, when they saw the boat making towards them; it rested ​opposite to where they stood, and Henry called loudly to his sister, "to throw aside her fears, and take a sail with them." His foot was on the edge of the boat; as he spoke it slipped, and the rapid stream closed over him. In less than an instant Edward plunged into the water; for a moment he disappeared, then rose again, and, with one arm round his insensible friend, was seen making strongly towards the shore. The mother rent the air with frantic screams, while Caroline, venturing into the waves, stood with out-stretched arms to afford him all the assistance in her power as soon as he should come within her reach. It was a moment of fearful suspense—every stroke was becoming more feeble; yet now he was so near, he thought he could avail himself of the extended hand. Alas! the distance deceived him—exhausted nature could do no more—one mighty sob, the last effort of expiring life, was heard; and then, with his hapless burthen, he sunk to rise no more.

"The following Sunday, Caroline, attended by all the youths and maidens of the village, followed the remains of her lover and brother to their graves. Her mother was not there; she was stretched on the bed of sickness, from which she never arose. It was not until the last of her earthly friends was laid in her narrow house, that the overcharged heart of Caroline ​found relief in tears; there was one passionate burst of sorrow, and then life became one uninteresting void. Here she still lives, and may, the shadow of her former self, be seen at times gliding amongst the scenes of her past happiness. She asks not for consolation; hers is a grief that admits not of it."

As the lady finished this melancholy recital, taking the arm of her companion, she rose to depart. Sad as had been the story she had related, she could have told a sadder.