Salathiel went forth, and Miriam, kneeling, buried her face in the lap of her aunt, and poured out her soul in prayer—deep, anguished, heart-engendered, heart-and-heaven-moving prayer.
It was some time before the low voice of Miriam ceased. But her feelings had been overwrought, andat length she lay silent yet suffering, with her head still on Deborah’s knees.
The quiet of the street and even of the chamber was at length disturbed by the confused footfall of a multitude who seemed to press onward with few words, and those uttered in a subdued tone. The multitude at length paused in front of the dwelling of Miriam, and the opening of the front door intimated that the procession of the people had some connection with the inmates of the house.
The door of Miriam’s chamber at length opened, and Salathiel stood before the two women pale and agitated.
“My sister, praise the Lord! A miracle has been wrought.”
The agitated maiden shrunk into the arms of her aunt as she gazed toward Salathiel.
“What,” exclaimed the aunt, “what is it, Salathiel? Speak?”
“Reuben—”
“Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.
“Reuben lives!”
“Where—where is he?”
“He has been borne back to the house of his mother.”
“How has this been wrought?” asked Deborah.
“There is our Cousin Asher, who was a witness of the whole. Shall he come in and tell you all?”
Asher was admitted with one or two others of the family, and briefly stated the facts.
“The rear of the very long procession that followed the corpse of Reuben had scarcely left the gate of the city, when I, who was assisting to bear the bier upon which rested the beloved remains, discovered a vast crowd of people coming down the hill. I soon, however, perceived that there was no intention on the part of the approaching mass to offer any offence or discourtesy to the funeral party; and, indeed, the expressions of grief by our widowed and bereaved kinswoman were so loud, that it was difficult to hear whether any word was uttered by the descending party. I have never seen a Hebrew woman so distressed; and though few have had such cause for grief, few have been more deeply wounded, yet I had hoped that she would have been able to repress her feelings. But as we grew nearer the grave, her lamentations were increased, and it was heart-rending to hear her exclamations. The whole procession seemed to have lost their own sense of bereavement in the presence of one the utterance of whose anguish was so impressive. To me it seemed almost an arraignment of Providence by our kinswoman. I cannot tell you how every one was affected; each seemed to wish silently but heartily that some event might occur to soothe the sorrows of the widow.
“At length the descending party, which was very large, met our procession; and almost every member of that company manifested deep sympathy for the suffering of the chief mourner. In a moment the principal of the company stepped forward and took our kinswoman by the hand, and whispered to her words of comfort. What they were I could not hear, but the effect was instantaneous—the clamor of grief was hushed—and our kinswoman walked quietly on, gazing with a sort ofrapt awe upon the comforter, whose countenance though marked with sympathy for her suffering was yet majestic and dignified.
“The mother’s eyes for a moment wandered from the face of the visiter, and fell upon the form of her son stretched out before her, and again her agony found vent—again themotherwas heard, again the mountain seemed to echo with her lamentation.
“He who was walking at her side did not rebuke the mourner, but a new and more intent feeling of compassion was evident in his look and manner, and taking the hand of the afflicted one, he said in a tone of deep consolation, ‘Weep not.’
“Almost immediately afterward he left the widow standing where she was, and approaching us ‘came and touched the bier,’ and we who were carrying it stopped; for there was a sort of authority in the air and movement of this person, or let me say the effect rather than the assumption of authority. When the eyes of all were turned toward the dead body, and toward him that stood by it, the person with a mild tone, with no ceremony, with a simple utterance of the words, said,
“ ‘Young man, I say unto thee, Arise!’ ”
“And Reuben, dear Asher, Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.
“And Reuben sat up on the bier, and began to speak of the sensations which crowded upon him.
“But He who had restored him to life, seemed to comprehend that the mother’s feelings should be first consulted, her rights first respected, and so ‘Hedelivered him to his mother.’”
“And he lives now?”
“Yes now, and with his mother. But what an awe came upon those who witnessed that august scene. There was no shouting at the success of the effort, no cheering that human life had been restored. But with an overpowering sense of divine visitation, the people, in devout fear, kneeled, and ‘glorified God,’ saying ‘a prophet has risen up among us.’”
It was not deemed safe to the convalescent Reuben that Miriam should visit him immediately. His life not his health had been restored. And the effect of a too early interview, might be too much for both. A few days afterward Salathiel conducted Miriam to the house of Reuben, and as they proceeded thither he cautioned her against the indulgence of too much feeling, lest her own frame should yield. Leading her to the door of the chamber, the young man felt that his presence would be too much of a restraint, so knocking lightly he heard a voice from within bidding them enter, and he turned and went to the mother in another part of the house.
What was said by the young lovers, separated as they had been by death, and thus restored this side the grave, we shall not now repeat. It was a sublime colloquy, for it included the experience of a heart in which hope had contended against hope—and the awful experience of a soul that had been freed from the trammels of flesh. But it was still Reuben and Miriam. Death had not destroyed the identity, for the same love that had animated them in his former life was felt and reciprocated now.
“I did fear, Reuben; indeed, for a moment I feared,when I heard of your restoration, that the love which had been a part ofourlives, would have been quenched in you by death, or sublimated beyond the uses and comprehension of earth.”
“Oh, Miriam love is the immortal part of our affections—it is the soul of the mind—it is stronger than death—and that which is pure and rightly placed on earth is indestructible, and thousands of years, my beloved, passed in separation would work no change. We should at our renewed communion find the same love that had existed in past centuries in full and satisfactory operation. You know that the seeds which our travelers bring from the mummies of Egypt are as fruitful as those which are sown from the last year’s harvest, so, my beloved one, is the love that is worthy the soul’s cherishing.”
“But, Reuben, has it struck you that you have received the testimony which you almost impiously challenged as a ground of faith?”
“It has, it has, and while I have been struck with shame at the impiety of such a thought, I have yielded the faith which I promised, and am henceforth a follower of the teachings of Him of Nazareth.”
“Oh, my prayers, dear Reuben—”
“They were pure, and effective toyourgood, Miriam, undoubtedly, but it was from compassion for my widowed, childless mother that the miracle was wrought.”
“Who shall tell the motives of Him that can work miracles? What we call ends, dear Reuben, may be means with him, and the babe that is sent in answer to the Hebrew mother’s prayer, may be the saviour or the destroyer of his people.”
Salathiel then knocked for admittance. He entered and kissing both of his cousins he wept with joy—“And this, this is the consummation of my highest earthly wish,” said he.
“Is it indeed? Canyourejoice, Salathiel, that I am come to take Miriam from you; is it indeed thus, my cousin?”
“I have loved Miriam as dearly as you could love her, Reuben. I will yield in that to none. I will not affect to concealthat. But the miracle that has raised you to life has shown me that I have a higher duty to perform, a more glorious mission to fulfill. Be yours, my cousin, the enjoyment of domestic love and peace and happiness, which virtue ensures; and let your home and your lives illustrate the power of the Master’s doctrine to purify and multiply home affections. Henceforth, if permitted, I will sit at the feet of the teacher and learn; and whensentI will go, and offer his doctrines and my life for the good of our people.”
The new moon had again come, and the house of the aunt of Miriam was filled with her kinspeople, who had come to the marriage; and when the feast was over, and parties had formed in different rooms, and some, with the bride and bridegroom, were on the housetop enjoying the delightful air of evening, as it swept down the hills loaded with the scents of roses and acacia, some drew the attention of the party to the brilliancy of the slender moon in the west, and the stars that were scattered through the heavens.
“It is a good omen,” said Asher, “when the planet that is so near the moon assumes with her the crescent shape at a marriage, or when at this season the Pleiads and Orion are peculiarly brilliant.”
The newly married ones looked up smilingly toward the heavens, as if they recognized the doctrine of stellar influences.
Salathiel, who had been looking upon the pair with deep interest, then stepped forward, and taking a hand of each, he said, “My cousins, I am called away—not again to mingle in this delightful scene—called to a higher duty; pray that it may be as delightful—it cannot be more dangerous. Keep the faith—mark the signs of the times in the conduct of man and in the instigations of your passions, but look not to the stars for your instruction. Oh, my beloved one,” and he stooped and kissed the lips of Miriam, “oh, my dear brother,” and he pressed his lips to the forehead of her husband; “oh, Reuben and Miriam, ‘seek Him that maketh the Seven Stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into morning, and maketh the day dark with night,’—theLordis his name.”
THE IMAGE.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———
Thou dwellest in my thoughtsAs shines a jewel in some ocean cave,Which the eye marks not and the waters lave;A ray of light imprisoned! which none saveThe soul that shrines it knows—its temple and its grave.Thou bathest in my dreams;A form of dainty Beauty—something seenAt cloudy intervals, through a gauze-like screen—A voice of gentle memories—a mienToo tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.Thou sparklest through my fears;A hope which bloometh as an early flower,Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;A holy star that glides at vesper hourInto the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!In daylight and in dreams,’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,Thou art the juice that every care can drown;A rose amongst the thorns—the azure downOf the meek-brooding dove—the halo and the crown!
Thou dwellest in my thoughtsAs shines a jewel in some ocean cave,Which the eye marks not and the waters lave;A ray of light imprisoned! which none saveThe soul that shrines it knows—its temple and its grave.Thou bathest in my dreams;A form of dainty Beauty—something seenAt cloudy intervals, through a gauze-like screen—A voice of gentle memories—a mienToo tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.Thou sparklest through my fears;A hope which bloometh as an early flower,Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;A holy star that glides at vesper hourInto the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!In daylight and in dreams,’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,Thou art the juice that every care can drown;A rose amongst the thorns—the azure downOf the meek-brooding dove—the halo and the crown!
Thou dwellest in my thoughtsAs shines a jewel in some ocean cave,Which the eye marks not and the waters lave;A ray of light imprisoned! which none saveThe soul that shrines it knows—its temple and its grave.
Thou dwellest in my thoughts
As shines a jewel in some ocean cave,
Which the eye marks not and the waters lave;
A ray of light imprisoned! which none save
The soul that shrines it knows—its temple and its grave.
Thou bathest in my dreams;A form of dainty Beauty—something seenAt cloudy intervals, through a gauze-like screen—A voice of gentle memories—a mienToo tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.
Thou bathest in my dreams;
A form of dainty Beauty—something seen
At cloudy intervals, through a gauze-like screen—
A voice of gentle memories—a mien
Too tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.
Thou sparklest through my fears;A hope which bloometh as an early flower,Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;A holy star that glides at vesper hourInto the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!
Thou sparklest through my fears;
A hope which bloometh as an early flower,
Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;
A holy star that glides at vesper hour
Into the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!
In daylight and in dreams,’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,Thou art the juice that every care can drown;A rose amongst the thorns—the azure downOf the meek-brooding dove—the halo and the crown!
In daylight and in dreams,
’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,
Thou art the juice that every care can drown;
A rose amongst the thorns—the azure down
Of the meek-brooding dove—the halo and the crown!
A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE,
ABOUT GRACE GERMAIN’S LIFE-ROMANCE.
———
BY CAROLINE C——.
———
’Tis as easy for the heart to be trueAs for grass to be green, or skies to be blue—’Tis the natural way of living!Vision of Sir Launfal.
’Tis as easy for the heart to be trueAs for grass to be green, or skies to be blue—’Tis the natural way of living!Vision of Sir Launfal.
’Tis as easy for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green, or skies to be blue—
’Tis the natural way of living!
Vision of Sir Launfal.
The school was dismissed, and a multitude of boys and girls came rushing out from the old frame building, and tore pell-mell down the streets of a country village, just like merry, care-naught mad-caps as they were. Of all ages and sizes were these little folks—they were the life and the care of a great many homes; some heirs of poverty, and some, but these were few, heirs of wealth—but each and all had brought with them into the world enough of love to secure for themselves a welcome place at the board, and by the hearth. They resembled very much any other congregation of children in the world—some of them remarkable for their stupidity, and presenting always to their teachers the same thick skulls, which it appeared nothing could penetrate—others again, quick at learning, to whom it was a relief for the weary Mentors to turn, and to whose mental wants they attended with a glad alacrity.
But I am not going to generalize any more at this time; and shall only add to the foregoing remarks, that this school was a marvel in its way—the teachers prodigies in learning, and all the parents thought their young children’s acquirements actually verging on to the miraculous—which state of things, I will add as a P. S., is remarkably pleasant for all parties concerned. Is it not teachers, and parents, and you poor little scholars?
Several girls, from nine to twelve years of age, were walking homeward leisurely, and talking loudly and earnestly on some important topic, as school-girls sometimes will, when a young boy, also one of the scholars, passed by them. With singular boldness he turned his handsome face full toward the little party as he passed, and one of the girls, whose name was Grace Germain, must have seen something remarkably expressive of somewhat in the boy’s black eyes, for very suddenly she seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation, in which, by the way, she had been one of the chief participators the moment before—and the little girl’s step grew slower and slower. Finally, taking one of her school-books from under her arm, Grace seemed all at once to be seized with a decidedly studious fit, (for the first time that week,) and then her shoe-strings must needs unloosen, and she must stop to fasten them, till at last, as might be expected, her companions were far beyond her in the homeward way, and she was left quite alone. When the child passed by a little lane her face became quite suddenly and unaccountably flushed, and Grace grew decidedly nervous in her movements, and she turned away her head, as though it were forbidden, and a sin for her to look down that narrow by-way where Dame Corkins and the little lame child lived.
But these mysterious movements were all explained when, a moment after, some one came marching, to a tune of double-quick time, up the lane, and when he appeared on the main-street again, lo and behold! it was that same black-eyed urchin Hugh Willson, who had a few moments previous passed by her, and he called out,
“Grace, Grace Germain, wait a moment; I want to tell you something!”
Grace of course blushed, and looked sideways, and down, and finally at the boy, but for the life of her she could not summon up a look of astonishment at his appearance, finally she said,
“Well, what do you want, Hugh?”
“I’m going home, Grace, to-morrow, and—and—I wanted to see you just to give you this; perhaps you’ll think I’m a fool for my pains. I wish though it was worth its weight in gold!”
Oh! you would have certainly thought that the poor girl’s face was on the point of blazing instantly, could you have seen it, and Hugh thought there were really tears in her eyes too, as she put out her hand for the little package he had brought her. For some distance they walked on together, and neither spoke.
At length, as she drew near home, Grace found courage to look up and say, “Hugh, what are you going home for?”
“Father has sent for me, I am to go to an academy, but—” Hugh did not finish the sentence, and after waiting an unconscionable time, and speaking at last as though a “drag” were fastened to every word, Grace said,
“You will come to see us again sometime, wont you, Hugh?”
“Yes, if I ever can. I can’t bear to go away now, Grace, but, as father says, Iamgetting old. I’m almost fifteen, and it’s a fact I ought to know more than I do. Perhaps I’ve staid in the country too long already; but I hate a city, and I shall come back here just as often as I can, for I love this place better than all the world.”
And that, reader, was rather a strange confession to be made by a spirit so active and stirring as was Hugh Willson’s, for of all country villages on the face of the earth, “Romulus” was certainly the dullest, and least attractive.
“I’m coming down by here to-night, Grace,” said the lad, as he opened the gate for the child, “if youwould like to see me, come out here—I cannot bid you good-bye now—will you be here?”
“Yes, Hugh,” was the reply given sadly—and this time it was a great deal more than she could do to keep back or hide her tears—for Grace Germain thought Hugh Willson the handsomest and kindest boy she ever knew, and she could not bear to think of his going away. So she left him with little ceremony, and went into the house. And the boy saw her grief, and he could have wept also—helovedGrace Germain!
Well, what do you think made up that unpretending package—the parting gift? First and foremost, there was a little box, and it contained—not a gem, not a book, but—a fresh, beautiful rose-bud; and Grace did not laugh when she saw it, neither did she smile as she unwound the strip of paper from the stem, and read thereon,
“GivemebutSomething whereunto I may bind my heart—Something to love, to rest upon, to claspAffection’s tendrils round!”
“GivemebutSomething whereunto I may bind my heart—Something to love, to rest upon, to claspAffection’s tendrils round!”
“GivemebutSomething whereunto I may bind my heart—Something to love, to rest upon, to claspAffection’s tendrils round!”
“GivemebutSomething whereunto I may bind my heart—Something to love, to rest upon, to claspAffection’s tendrils round!”
“Givemebut
Something whereunto I may bind my heart—
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp
Affection’s tendrils round!”
She did not laugh, I say, for sorrow was in her heart, the first deep sorrow she had ever known. Hugh was going away—and how much better she liked him than all other boys she had ever known in her life! But the rose-bud was not all the contents of the box; there was beside it a magnificent sheet of blue paper, gilt edged, and “superfine,” and on it Hugh had copied the “Parting Song,” by Mrs. Hemans; and perhaps, good reader, though you be not fresh from Yankee land, you may guess how the child’s heart beat faster than ever it had before, as she read the words—
When will you think of me, dear Grace?When will you think of me?When the last red light, the farewell of day,From the rock and the river is passing away,When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?Then let it be!
When will you think of me, dear Grace?When will you think of me?When the last red light, the farewell of day,From the rock and the river is passing away,When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?Then let it be!
When will you think of me, dear Grace?When will you think of me?When the last red light, the farewell of day,From the rock and the river is passing away,When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?Then let it be!
When will you think of me, dear Grace?When will you think of me?When the last red light, the farewell of day,From the rock and the river is passing away,When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?Then let it be!
When will you think of me, dear Grace?
When will you think of me?
When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away,
When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,
And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?
Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?When will you think of me?When the rose of the rich midsummer timeIs filled with the hues of its glorious prime,When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?When will you think of me?When the rose of the rich midsummer timeIs filled with the hues of its glorious prime,When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?When will you think of me?When the rose of the rich midsummer timeIs filled with the hues of its glorious prime,When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?When will you think of me?When the rose of the rich midsummer timeIs filled with the hues of its glorious prime,When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?
When will you think of me?
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime,
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;
Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—Thus ever think of me!Kindly, and gently, but as of oneFor whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;As of a bird from a chain unbound,As of a wanderer whose home is found;So let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—Thus ever think of me!Kindly, and gently, but as of oneFor whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;As of a bird from a chain unbound,As of a wanderer whose home is found;So let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—Thus ever think of me!Kindly, and gently, but as of oneFor whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;As of a bird from a chain unbound,As of a wanderer whose home is found;So let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—Thus ever think of me!Kindly, and gently, but as of oneFor whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;As of a bird from a chain unbound,As of a wanderer whose home is found;So let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly, and gently, but as of one
For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found;
So let it be!
And what had Grace to give to Hugh? What had she among her few treasured possessions aboywould care for? The dolls maimed for life—the broken china—the picture-books—the bits of lace and ribbons, what were they to him? Grace never realized her poverty before that day—and then the very thought was humiliating. If she could only buy a knife, or a pocket-book, or a pencil-case; but the child had no purse, and, unfortunately, no money either, so that thought was speedily abandoned. It grew quite dark while she stood in her little room, still before the opened drawer which held all her keepsakes and treasures, but no good fairy was nigh at hand to lay before her the thing she wished, and at last, quite in despair, she went and stood by the parlor window, and lo, there was Hugh already passing by, whistling, and looking for all the world as though the inmates of that particular house were nothing in the least to him.
In a few moments, side by side, the boy and girl were walking in the garden.
“I have read your note, Hugh,” said Grace, for the “shades of evening” creeping over them, gave her a wonderful and unnatural boldness to speak, “but what shall I give you for a keepsake? I haven’t a book in the worldyouwould give a fig for.”
“Don’t talk about books,” replied he, hastily, “there is something that wouldn’t cost you much, I’d give more for than for all the books in Christendom!”
“What is it, Hugh, tell me quick?”
“Just that curl on your forehead! Give me that, Grace, and I never will part with it.”
In a moment it was separated from the thick curls that adorned her head, and stooping down, Grace laid a forget-me-not in it, and gave it to Hugh. He—what? kissed it, and kissed Grace, and then put the curls safely in his vest-pocket, and told the child she was the prettiest and best girl he ever knew, and that he should miss her more than all the boys and girls of the village together.
But while the lad was in the very midst of his ardent protestations, a voice from the house called to Grace, and the children parted—to meet again, how and when you shall not be so long learning as they were.
Hugh went to his city home, Grace to her school. He dreaming of Grace Germain as a woman, and wondering if she would not then be his wife—she to resume her studies with no great interest, to wish day after day that Hugh would only come back again, and to wonder if he would be so handsome when he was a man as he was then.
Years passed, Grace was no longer a child but a beautiful girl—a bride; and yet Hugh Willson was not her bridegroom.
A rich young merchant of a neighboring town, captivated by her loveliness and charming manners, had “wooed an won,” and a nine days’ wonder in the village of Romulus, was the wonderful good fortune of the orphan—for of late years Grace had been dependent on her relatives, her parents having died while she was yet very young.
Grace had never seen or heard of the boy of rose-bud memory since their first parting, but her thoughts of him had always been those we have for a pleasant unforgotten dream. And she kept the little gift that Hugh had given her most religiously. The very night before her bridal, though she had wept happy tears over the noble, tender note that Clarence Lovering sent her with a splendid ornament—a wedding-gift—still she had it in her heart even then, to look with no ordinary interest on the little pasteboard box that held the withered flower, and to read, not carelessly, the verses Hugh had written her in a large, boyish hand so long ago.
Yet it was not faithlessness to later vows that prompted her to kiss the rose-bud, and to preserve still longer the blue note and the little box, for Grace with all her heart respected Clarence Lovering, and sheloved him well, too. She was a lofty, true-spirited girl, and when she married the young merchant, for better or for worse, as it might prove, she did it with a true and loyal heart; and it was in all respects a union in which might well be asked, and without doubt or fear, the blessing of Heaven.
But there were bitterer tears to be shed, and deeper griefs to be borne than Grace Lovering had yet known; six months after her marriage she followed her young husband to the grave, and there was none on earth that could sustain or uphold her in that day of terrible visitation. Voices and forms with which she was scarcely familiar came to comfort her, but the friend whose companionship would have made any place in the wide world a pleasant home for her, was dead; and the bereaved woman longed to return once again to her early home—the village where all her early life was passed—to bury her husband and lover beside her parents, under the willow-tree in the old burial-ground, and then to mourn in quietness, and alone, away from the scenes of the bustling, noisy town.
And all her desires were speedily complied with—her old guardian and uncle from the little village came to her to assist, and conduct her back to Romulus; and before the year was passed, Grace was again at home in the old house where she was born, and in the grave-yard near by, on which she could daily, hourly look, her husband slept.
Kindly and tenderly the old neighbors welcomed back the mourner to their midst; and there, where in her childish heart love had first awakened, there, where in later years she had watched in agony the dear ones of the household “passing away” silently into the “silent land;” there, in the old dwelling, which, during the few past years had stood tenantless, and looking so broken-hearted; there, in her early womanhood, Grace Lovering, the desolate and stricken, came back to make it her abiding-place, her lonelyhome. She felt that to her a cold twilight of existence only was remaining, that the sunshine which rests so richly and revivingly on the young and the beloved, would be henceforth faint and weak as her own heart. But it was not wholly so, time the great soother, as well as destroyer and chastener, took the sting and the poignancy from her grief, and, like the dove with its olive branch, there spread through her soul that trust in Heaven’s infinite goodness, that makes the wilderness even to blossom.
Placed far above the reach of poverty, the miseries and cares of want did not mingle their bitterness with her heart-sorrow. And in all, save those few natural but dread experiences, Grace bade fair to be a “babe at seventy,” in that unwelcome wisdom which continued misfortunes only can impart.
It was her thirtieth birth-day, and the anniversary of her marriage. The widow sat alone in the pleasant parlor of her cottage; she had remained alone that day, and with tears dedicated it to her heart’s sacred memories. Every thing about the room and the house, was pleasantly indicative of a refined and peaceful way of living, and of cheerfulness, too, save and except the sorrowing woman, who, at nightfall paced the room, and looked so sadly into the past. The curtains of the windows were drawn and the door closed; Grace had been looking again over the treasures of her casket. It was in that very room, twenty years before, she had laid down on that night of their parting, to dream about Hugh Willson, and to pray for his happiness; and now she stood there a widow, sad and desolate, in her prime of life, thinking of the love of her later life—and weeping as she thought—for Clarence Lovering was worthy to be so remembered and loved.
In the beautiful casket,hisgift, were laid the bridal ornaments which he had given; she had never worn them since his death, but kept them where no eye but her own could gaze upon them, and think of his loving kindness, but with them was preserved still a withered flower whose fragrance had fled quite away, andneverwith a heart quite calm, had Grace been able to look upon it; neither had she ever been able to think with indifference, or a mereidlecuriosity of thought, on the probable worth of Hugh Willson’s manhood.
At length, as the night came on, the letters, and the jewels, and the rose, were laid away, but the miniature of her lost husband was lying next her heart then—for the love of the woman was vaster and deeper than that of the child; and Grace had dried her tears, for the hope that consoles the Christian mourner had conquered the agony of spirit that for a time overwhelmed her.
The evening proved dark and stormy, the pattering of the rain upon the window-sill, and the still softer and more dream-like sound with which it falls upon the grass, which is so pleasant to hear when all within the house is bright and cheerful, was a melancholy sound to the lonely woman, for it fell upon the graves in the burial-ground, where the damp earth was the only shelter of her beloved ones, and its echo fell upon that grave in her heart where lay buried the hopes of her youth—she might have, and I know not but she did, draw from it a hope and a promise of resurrection and of life both for her lamented dead, and for her vanished joy in life.
The quiet of the chamber was for a moment broken, a servant entered, a letter laid upon the table, and then the door was closed, the post-boy gone, and all was still again.
Mechanically the widow tore off the envelope, and opened the epistle. Let us read it with her, for Grace Lovering is born to a new life when those contents are made known to her—she dwells no longer in the so lonely present, or the sad past. For her also the future is alive again. She did not look for a resurrection so sudden and so strange—did you?
“Grace, dear Grace Germain, from the sands of the desert my voice, perhaps long, long forgotten, comes to you again. It is night, ‘night in Arabia,’ and I am for a moment alone; my traveling companions are gone to their rest, but I—I cannot sleep, and so have come from out my tent to write by the light of the burning stars once again to her whowasthe little girl I knew and loved in childhood. You may think my man’s estate has been reached unworthily, because I still love to think of boyish hours, and long so to recall them—yes, that is it,long to recall them. Are you yourself unable to think of them as the very blessedest daysyou ever knew? If it is so, Grace, how idly will my words fall on your ear.“I know nothing of what has been the fate of the child I loved so well. I know not if you are the bride of another, or, perchance, I may be addressing myself to one who no longer has a name on the earth; but even if the idol of my boyish years is living for, and to another, I can pray for and bless her. Yes, I pray God to bless you, Grace Germain. I cannot and will not believe that thewomanto whom I address myself, is no more. There is something whispering to my spirit now, it is not so. I feel to-night a strong conviction, an irresistible presentiment that you and I will meet again. I dare not thinkhow, but this I know, if it is not in this world, we shall know one another hereafter.“If you remember me at all, I know it is only as the wild and trifling boy who loved you better than his books, better than all children he ever knew. You know me not at all as the stern, time-tried, care-worn man, who has fought fierce battles with fortune and life, who finds himself wasting the powers of his manhood, far severed from all domestic, humanizing ties, treasuring in his heart only one name that makes the joyful recollection of his youth—careless, cold, and selfish perhaps, but never losing hold of that one, dear link to the affection, the lasting, undying affection that was born of you in my youthful soul, and still, still preserves its strengththroughyou.“Perhaps, indeed, you do not in the faintest degree remember me. You may have to recall with an effort the time of childhood, or at least that time when I was your school-companion; nay, it may be an effort for you to recall my name. Oh, if that is the truth, how very different is it to the memory I have treasured of you, dear Grace. My home has been upon the oceans and in the deserts, and mid the wilds of nature every where. Many years have passed since I left my father’s house, and my feet have never from that time touched upon my native shores. During these years of absence I have had opportunities to try my heart. I have learned who are the friends most dear to me, and over the vast sea of the desert sand, across the great ocean, let my voice come and whisper in your ear, Grace, there are none, none whose memory is so treasured now as is your own! The longing which is so often felt by the wanderer for the scenes and familiar faces of his native land, has never before pressed so heavily on me as this night; and now I wish, oh, how eagerly, to revisit, if it be only for an hour, that quiet place where a portion of my school-life was passed; and yet it is only because it is, or may be stillyourhome; and were I there again, I might tread withyoualong the race-course, and over the old bridge to —— Grove, and through all the haunts now treasured in my memory. Do you remember the gifts we gave at parting? and did you fling away the bud as a worthless, trifling thing, even before it was faded? Or—what madness, you will think, prompted such an idea—do you keep it still? Perhaps you had not then so fully awakened to the life of the heart, you may not have dreamed that with that simple memento I gave to you the dreams of my boyhood, the hopes of my youth. Grace, I gave youMY HEARTwith the flower. I have never since recalled it. And now, if memories are returning again to you, if you are looking half tremblingly into the past, you will think of the little curl and the frail forget-me-not. Oh, you will not need that I should tell now how in danger and in suffering, and through all the most varied experiences I have preserved them—and how I havenotforgotten.“Last night I dreamed that you kept the rose-bud yet, and, will you believe it, when I awakened, and recalled to mind the proverb about the truthfulness of dreams, and theircontrariness, it troubled me. Thousands of miles lie between us, and we may never meet again, all recollections of my native land save those relating to you only, are hateful to me; but, could I only hear your voice assuring me this night, or could I believe that you would welcome me back, and say to me with your own sweet voice that you were glad to see me, oh, I should run and could not weary nor grow faint, and neither day nor night should look upon my lagging feet until I stood once more beside you. Thou, beautiful joy of my childhood, say, wouldst thou welcome me?“Perhaps you will think I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in so addressing you, for the friendships and loves of children are, I know, usually evanescent as dreams, yet I cannot, will not, think that whatever may be your position in life now, or whatever may be the relations you sustain in life, I do not believe that you will scorn me for the words I have written, or that you will read carelessly this record of my thoughts.“Time has dealt with no light hand to me, he may have given you, perhaps, with every passing year, a blessing. He has laid no caressing arm on me; possibly he has guided you thus far tenderly as a mother would lead her child. I have bowed beneath his frown, and you, you may have grown to glorious perfectness in the light of his smile. I have known deep sorrows—it may be, oh, I pray it maynotbe—that you also have not escaped the universal heritage. It might be far beyond your possibility to recognize inmethe bright boy filled with glad expectations that you once knew; but I cannot but believe that I should know you, and recognize you amid a multitude—the mild and beautiful blue eyes—the meek, gentle, and so expressive countenance—the smile, so sweet and winning, that rested so often on the face of the dear child; oh, they are not yet forgotten. I am convinced thewomanwhom I love has a face whose expression is heavenly! Do not censure me, I pray, for daring totellmy love. The hope of being with you once again, and of speaking with and looking upon you, is like the hope of heaven to the pilgrim, weary and out-worn with earth-striving.“Months will pass away before these words, uttered from the fullness of my heart, reach you—the heart from which they come may have ere then ceased its beating, may be cold and dead; but will it be nothing for you to know that its beatings were ever true to you, even though you never have, and do not now need my homage? Will you care to think that when I wrote these words it was my highest hope that I might one day follow them to the home of Grace Germain, to beseech at least her friendliness, to hear the tones ofher dear voice again, and then perhaps to lie down to rest in the grave-yard near her home, where it would be no wrong for her to come sometimes, even from a circle of beloved ones, to think of days gone by, the days of merry childhood.“I have written too much—too much; the day is dawning, we shall journey far through the desert before to-morrow morning, but to-night, with every word I have written, thoughts and great hopes have awakened which will never be stilled again—they will be with me till I stand once more before you; and if there be a dearer one on whom your eyes will rest as you lift them from this page, to whom you will confide this folly of an old man, as you perhaps will call it, yet still remember me, and let him think of me with forgiving kindness.“May the rich blessing of heaven be with you now and ever.“Hugh Willson.”
“Grace, dear Grace Germain, from the sands of the desert my voice, perhaps long, long forgotten, comes to you again. It is night, ‘night in Arabia,’ and I am for a moment alone; my traveling companions are gone to their rest, but I—I cannot sleep, and so have come from out my tent to write by the light of the burning stars once again to her whowasthe little girl I knew and loved in childhood. You may think my man’s estate has been reached unworthily, because I still love to think of boyish hours, and long so to recall them—yes, that is it,long to recall them. Are you yourself unable to think of them as the very blessedest daysyou ever knew? If it is so, Grace, how idly will my words fall on your ear.
“I know nothing of what has been the fate of the child I loved so well. I know not if you are the bride of another, or, perchance, I may be addressing myself to one who no longer has a name on the earth; but even if the idol of my boyish years is living for, and to another, I can pray for and bless her. Yes, I pray God to bless you, Grace Germain. I cannot and will not believe that thewomanto whom I address myself, is no more. There is something whispering to my spirit now, it is not so. I feel to-night a strong conviction, an irresistible presentiment that you and I will meet again. I dare not thinkhow, but this I know, if it is not in this world, we shall know one another hereafter.
“If you remember me at all, I know it is only as the wild and trifling boy who loved you better than his books, better than all children he ever knew. You know me not at all as the stern, time-tried, care-worn man, who has fought fierce battles with fortune and life, who finds himself wasting the powers of his manhood, far severed from all domestic, humanizing ties, treasuring in his heart only one name that makes the joyful recollection of his youth—careless, cold, and selfish perhaps, but never losing hold of that one, dear link to the affection, the lasting, undying affection that was born of you in my youthful soul, and still, still preserves its strengththroughyou.
“Perhaps, indeed, you do not in the faintest degree remember me. You may have to recall with an effort the time of childhood, or at least that time when I was your school-companion; nay, it may be an effort for you to recall my name. Oh, if that is the truth, how very different is it to the memory I have treasured of you, dear Grace. My home has been upon the oceans and in the deserts, and mid the wilds of nature every where. Many years have passed since I left my father’s house, and my feet have never from that time touched upon my native shores. During these years of absence I have had opportunities to try my heart. I have learned who are the friends most dear to me, and over the vast sea of the desert sand, across the great ocean, let my voice come and whisper in your ear, Grace, there are none, none whose memory is so treasured now as is your own! The longing which is so often felt by the wanderer for the scenes and familiar faces of his native land, has never before pressed so heavily on me as this night; and now I wish, oh, how eagerly, to revisit, if it be only for an hour, that quiet place where a portion of my school-life was passed; and yet it is only because it is, or may be stillyourhome; and were I there again, I might tread withyoualong the race-course, and over the old bridge to —— Grove, and through all the haunts now treasured in my memory. Do you remember the gifts we gave at parting? and did you fling away the bud as a worthless, trifling thing, even before it was faded? Or—what madness, you will think, prompted such an idea—do you keep it still? Perhaps you had not then so fully awakened to the life of the heart, you may not have dreamed that with that simple memento I gave to you the dreams of my boyhood, the hopes of my youth. Grace, I gave youMY HEARTwith the flower. I have never since recalled it. And now, if memories are returning again to you, if you are looking half tremblingly into the past, you will think of the little curl and the frail forget-me-not. Oh, you will not need that I should tell now how in danger and in suffering, and through all the most varied experiences I have preserved them—and how I havenotforgotten.
“Last night I dreamed that you kept the rose-bud yet, and, will you believe it, when I awakened, and recalled to mind the proverb about the truthfulness of dreams, and theircontrariness, it troubled me. Thousands of miles lie between us, and we may never meet again, all recollections of my native land save those relating to you only, are hateful to me; but, could I only hear your voice assuring me this night, or could I believe that you would welcome me back, and say to me with your own sweet voice that you were glad to see me, oh, I should run and could not weary nor grow faint, and neither day nor night should look upon my lagging feet until I stood once more beside you. Thou, beautiful joy of my childhood, say, wouldst thou welcome me?
“Perhaps you will think I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in so addressing you, for the friendships and loves of children are, I know, usually evanescent as dreams, yet I cannot, will not, think that whatever may be your position in life now, or whatever may be the relations you sustain in life, I do not believe that you will scorn me for the words I have written, or that you will read carelessly this record of my thoughts.
“Time has dealt with no light hand to me, he may have given you, perhaps, with every passing year, a blessing. He has laid no caressing arm on me; possibly he has guided you thus far tenderly as a mother would lead her child. I have bowed beneath his frown, and you, you may have grown to glorious perfectness in the light of his smile. I have known deep sorrows—it may be, oh, I pray it maynotbe—that you also have not escaped the universal heritage. It might be far beyond your possibility to recognize inmethe bright boy filled with glad expectations that you once knew; but I cannot but believe that I should know you, and recognize you amid a multitude—the mild and beautiful blue eyes—the meek, gentle, and so expressive countenance—the smile, so sweet and winning, that rested so often on the face of the dear child; oh, they are not yet forgotten. I am convinced thewomanwhom I love has a face whose expression is heavenly! Do not censure me, I pray, for daring totellmy love. The hope of being with you once again, and of speaking with and looking upon you, is like the hope of heaven to the pilgrim, weary and out-worn with earth-striving.
“Months will pass away before these words, uttered from the fullness of my heart, reach you—the heart from which they come may have ere then ceased its beating, may be cold and dead; but will it be nothing for you to know that its beatings were ever true to you, even though you never have, and do not now need my homage? Will you care to think that when I wrote these words it was my highest hope that I might one day follow them to the home of Grace Germain, to beseech at least her friendliness, to hear the tones ofher dear voice again, and then perhaps to lie down to rest in the grave-yard near her home, where it would be no wrong for her to come sometimes, even from a circle of beloved ones, to think of days gone by, the days of merry childhood.
“I have written too much—too much; the day is dawning, we shall journey far through the desert before to-morrow morning, but to-night, with every word I have written, thoughts and great hopes have awakened which will never be stilled again—they will be with me till I stand once more before you; and if there be a dearer one on whom your eyes will rest as you lift them from this page, to whom you will confide this folly of an old man, as you perhaps will call it, yet still remember me, and let him think of me with forgiving kindness.
“May the rich blessing of heaven be with you now and ever.
“Hugh Willson.”
And had Hugh Willson, indeed, committed an unpardonable trespass in writing thus, after the lapse of so many years, to his old schoolmate? No, no! bear witness the sudden flashings of color, and the as sudden paleness which swept over the lady’s face as she read on; bear witness the occasional smiles, and the long and passionate weeping in which the lonely woman indulged, when her eyes rested so tenderly and sadly on the name affixed to the strange epistle. They were not tears of anger that she shed; it was not a smile of derision and mockery, at the sudden betrayal of affection the man had given, after a silence of years; they were not words of scorn which escaped her lips when she laid down to rest that night; ah, no! he had powerfully touched a chord in her soul, that from her childhood had ever vibrated even at the mention of his name.
There were eyes that were not closed in sleep during the hours of that night—but it was not grief that caused the widow’s wakefulness. There was one who listened till the morning to the heavy falling rain—but not in sadness; there was a lady who arose when the sunlight streamed once more through her chamber, who looked out on the blue heavens whence all the clouds had vanished, and hailed then a new era in her life-history.
From that day there was a marked change in the existence of Grace Lovering. That message of love which had come to her from the desert, at a time when life pressed heavily upon her, and death seemed the only hope of relief; that message aroused and cheered her, and made her to look more thankfully on the life yet vouchsafed to her, and the blessings which had been given along with the sorrows. Though the hope, and the thought even, seemed a wild one, that Hugh Willson would ever again return, the idea that he even remembered her, and thought still with interest on their childish years was grateful to her heart, and made her feel that neither for her nor for any one in the wide world is lifeutterlylonely and worthless.
True, the widowed and orphaned woman never forgot that she hadburied her dead, that all her nearest of kin slept the long and quiet death-sleep; but a serenity and cheerfulness quite usurped the past frequent melancholy, and smiles were oftener seen upon her lovely face than tears. And not only in herself was the change visible; her household, and the little cottage seemed to share in the awakened happiness; and then, too, the poor and the needy had oftener cause to bless the widowed woman. The sick and suffering shared her loving care; and they blessed her—well might they—when she stood so often like a ministering angel beside them. The old and the weary mingled her name in their thanksgiving, for she failed not to make their downward path easy, and her voice was the voice of a comforter to them.
And this, as it were, instantaneous rousing up to active life, was a blessed thing for Grace. Time, after that great change, sped on no leaden wing; the clouds began to break, and stars came out, even when she had thought nothing but midnight darkness was forever her portion. The heart of the widow grew strong then, for she knew that when those stars were set, or hid again as theyhadbeen from her eyes, that the great sun itself would arise, and the never-ending daylight would break for her.
Ten years thus passed away. The shadows of forty winters had crept over the wife of Clarence Lovering; and still she wore the garments of mourning, in remembrance of the husband of her youth; but it was not a repining, murmuring spirit that dwelt beneath those doleful robes.
“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose loveNo change or time can ever shock;”
“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose loveNo change or time can ever shock;”
“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose loveNo change or time can ever shock;”
“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose loveNo change or time can ever shock;”
“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose love
No change or time can ever shock;”
and she dwelt on the earth blessing and blest.
Many times her hand had been sought in marriage; strong-willed men had bowed themselves, and sued humbly for her love—but she had none to give, and no prospect of increasedworldly prosperity could influence her to utter with less of truthfulness and honesty of soul than she had once spoken them, the marriage vows!
Grace had her treasures still, and there was an unfinished romance connected with her life, of which I would not say she did not at times long to know the conclusion—for she felt it was not concluded.
There were gray hairs—only a very few, my gentle reader—visible among the beautiful brown locks, and the clustering curls Hugh Willson treasured the memory of so well, were all vanished; there was no bloom upon the pleasant face—the blue eyes were less bright—but the “features of the soul” remained unchanged, or if at all changed, only in their nearer approach to perfection. And amid her kindly charities, and the thousand love-inspired duties had Grace forgotten the letter ten years old, and its author! Very far from that; and it had been a source of happiness deeper than she cared to acknowledge even to herself, to look once again on Hugh Willson, and to hear his voice. But none save that one letter had ever reached her from him; he might have forgotten, though that to her seemed a thing impossible. The depths of feeling revealed in that lettermighthave existed no longer, or at least might have ceased to bearherreflection and image, when he had fully exposed it to the light. He might be dead!
Once or twice she harbored the wild idea of answeringhis letter, to bid him come back—to assure him that there was at least one who would most heartily welcome him; and at such times Grace could but smile at her own folly—for the wanderer had no settled home, and there was no possibility of knowing where, even for a moment, his abiding place was; and so her natural good sense dispatched that fancy with a multitude of others to the land of shadows and dreams.
There came round in the natural order of things a sacrament Sabbath.
It was one of those heavenly days in the month of all months, that is, the “month of roses,” when,