"How radiant you look this morning," exclaimed Gertrude, in astonishment, as she opened Rose's chamber door, and sat down by her bed-side; "your eyes have such a dazzling sparkle, and your cheeks such a glow. What is it,ma petite?" she asked, still gazing on the speechless Rose.
"Vincent is not dead," said Rose, slowly and oracularly, "Vincent is not false. The weight has gone from here, Gertrude," laying her hand on her heart. "I shall see him, though I can not tell you how nor where; but he will come back to me and Charley. I saw him last night in my dream—so noble—so good—but, oh! so wan, with the weary search for me. I hid my face—I could not look in his eyes—for I had doubted him—but he forgave me; oh! Gertrude, it was blessed, the clasp of those shadowy arms," and Rose smiled, and closed her eyes again, as if to shut out the sight of all that might dim her spiritual vision.
"Poor—poor Rose!" murmured Gertrude, terrified at the idea which forced itself upon her, "reason gone! Poor Rose!" and as she gazed, the warm tears fell upon the pillow.
Gertrude passed her soft hand magnetizingly over Rose's closed lids and temples; gradually the bright flush left her cheek, and she sank quietly to sleep.
"Was this to be the end of all Rose's sufferings? God forbid," murmured Gertrude. "Death itself were preferable to this," said she, her eyes still riveted on the beauty of that pale, childish face.
"Hush!" whispered Gertrude, with her finger on her lips, as her brother rapped on the door for her; she little thought that she had an unread page in her own eventful history to turn.
"I am so glad I did not see him," exclaimed she, when her brother finished his narration. "I should have felt as if a rattlesnake lay coiled in my path. He deserved his chastisement; and yet, John, I do not like this whipping system; it always seems to me as if a gentleman who stooped to it put himself on a level with the villain whom he punished."
"It is the only way, Gertrude," said the doctor; "especially where the law gives no redress. Besides, it is the only thing that appeals to that kind of fellow."
"But he is so vindictive;" said Gertrude, looking apprehensively at her brother, "he may lay coiled like a wounded snake, but he will yet make a spring."
"You forget that his Christian reputation stands in the way of any such little personal gratification," said John, sarcastically.
"He has been able, though, heretofore, to make a compromise with it," said Gertrude.
"Ah! he had only a woman to deal with," answered John, "and one whom he knew would suffer in silence, as many an injured high-minded woman has done before, rather than sacrifice the delicacy of her sex, by publicly brandishing the cudgel in her own defense, even in a righteous cause.Ishall have no such scruples, and you will see that he understands it. A good sound flagellation is the only 'moral suasion' for such women tyrants; it is only against the defenseless such cowards dare wage war."
"Let us talk of something else," said Gertrude; and she related to John what had transpired between her and Rose.
John looked very grave, and sat absorbed in thought.
"I knew it would trouble you," said Gertrude; "it would be so dreadful should she lose her reason."
"I do not fear that," replied John; "I do not think her mind was wandering when she told you her dream. I think you will find that she will be perfectly sane when she wakes.
"Her dream,"—and John hesitated, "may prove true; stranger things have happened. Stronger chains of evidence than that which apparently overthrew her hopes have been snapped in twain, and, if—he should—be living—if—he—should prove worthy of her—dear asshe is to me, I feel Gertrude, that my love is capable of self-sacrifice. I will use my best endeavors to bring them together.
"I shall never love again," said John; "I shall never see another woman who will so satisfy my soul, so pure, so childlike, so trusting, and yet so strong, so immovable in what she considers right—so vastly superior to all other women. Ihadwoven bright dreams, in which she had a part," and John walked to the window to conceal his emotion.
Gertrude did not follow him; she knew from experience that there are moments when the presence even of the dearest friend is a restraint, when the overcharged spirit must find relief only in solitude and self-communing, and with a heart yearning with tenderness toward her brother, she stole softly from his presence.
"Don't talk to me, Mrs. Howe," said her husband, slamming to the door, and dumping down in his arm-chair as if to try the strength of the seat. "If there is any thing I hate, Mrs. Howe, it is that tribe of popinjays, one of whom has just gone through that door; hate don't express it, Mrs. Howe, I detest, and abominate, and despise him."
"Well, now, Mr. Howe, I am athtonithed," lisped his wife, that lady not having yet accommodated her speech to the play of her new set of teeth. "I am thure he ith the moth elegant and refined and thivil thpoken young man I ever thaw; I never heard him thay an offenthive thing to any one in my life."
"Of course you haven't, Mrs. Howe; and that's just what I hate him for; a man who is so loaded and primed with civil speeches is always rotten at the core. I always steer clear of such a fellow," said John, forgetting the compliments to himself which he had heretofore swallowed.
"That man never sneezes without calculating the effect of it; he has the same smile and bow andobsequious manner for every body; it is his aim to be popular, and it may go down with women and softheaded men, but he don't take John Howe in. He is an oily-tongued hypocrite. That's plain Saxon, Mrs. Howe. I am astonished at you—no, I am not, either," said John, slamming himself down again into the chair.
"Mrs. Howe!"
And John wheeled his chair close up to her, "didn't you hear him the other day, when that tiresome, stupid Mrs. Frink was here, inquire so touchingly after a bad cough which he recollected she had when he met her a year ago? Did you see the effect it had on the silly old thing? I wonder she got out the door without having it widened, she was so puffed up.
"Mrs. Howe!"
And John moved up still closer, "if that man should meet our old cat in the entry after a month's absence, he'd take off his hat, and inquire after that very precocious kitten of hers he had the pleasure of seeing on the stairs when he was last here. Fact—I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Howe," and John dumped himself down again into the chair; "the man is a jackass, a fool, a perfume-bottle on legs—faugh!
"Mrs. Howe!"
And John wheeled round again, "didn't he upset that old squirrel-eyed Miss Price, by repeating a common-place remark of hers which she made him twoor three years ago, and which he had the brass to say struck him so forcibly at the time that he never forgot it? Didn't she go home in the full belief that she had up to that time been terribly underrated by her folks at home? Certainly;—now do you suppose he does all that for nothing, Mrs. Howe? No—he gets his pay out of you all by an invitation to a good dinner. He does the same here, whenever it is more convenient to stop here than down town, and then you and all the rest of these silly women become his trumpeters.
"For his fine speeches to steamboat captains, he gets a free pass in their boats; landlords of hotels, ditto; that's it, Mrs. Howe.
"I am astonished at you, Mrs. Howe.
"He gets presents of hats, presents of coats, presents of canes, presents of pictures, presents of books and stationery.
"As for the women, of course, as I said before, such flummery takes them right down—just as it did you, Mrs. Howe.
"May he be strangled in his pink and blue cravat before he comes here to another dinner.
"That's right, Jonathan, come in," said Mr. Howe, as an unpolished, but good-hearted country cousin strode over the carpet in his thick-soled boots; "that's right. You have come just in time to save me from being sick at the stomach; sit down—any where, topof the piano if you like; put your feet on that Chinese work-table, and hang your hat on that Venus. It will do me good. And give me that bit of hay sticking on your outside coat. Let us have something natural, somehow."
Mrs. Howe retired in disgust, although she was too much under the yoke to make any remonstrance, which she felt sure would be thrownin her teeth!
In default of any more children, Mrs. Howe, like many other ladies similarly situated, consoled herself with her dog, Consuelo.
Seating herself in what she called her "boudoir," a little room whose walls were covered with red satin paper, which Mrs. Howe imagined particularly in harmony with her rubicund complexion, she took Consuelo on her lap, and stroking his long silken ears, said: "How like Mr. Howe, to prefer that clumsy country cousin of his to the elegant Finels. There is just the same difference between them that there is between you, my lovely Consuelo, and that hideous yellow terrier of the butcher's boy. I think I may say, Consuelo, that both you and I are quite thrown away in this house," and wrapping her pet in his embroidered blanket, she laid him down in her lap to sleep.
"Jealous! ah, ha! That's it, Consuelo. That is what sets Mr. Howe so against Finels; as for his coming here for our good dinners, that is all sheer nonsense.Hesees plainly enough, with all his politeness to John,that I am miserably sacrificed to him. I was not aware of it myself until after I became acquainted with Mr. Finels. Finels always pays so much attention when I speak. John, on the contrary, half the time, does not seem to hear me. It is not at all uncommon for him to leave the room or to fall asleep in the middle of one of my conversations. It is very irritating to a sensible woman. Finels always remembers some little remark I have made him. I think I must have been in the habit of throwing away a great many good things on John. John has grown very stupid since I married him.
"Finels says such pretty French words; I have not the slightest idea what they mean, but doubtless there is some delicate compliment conveyed in them, if I only understood the language. I think I will study French. Oh! that would be delightful, and then John can't understand a word dear Finels and I say;" and Mrs. Howe tied on her hat, and went in pursuit of a French grammar.
"What on earth is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, as she entered the parlor two hours after, with her French bonnet and French grammar. "What on earth is this?" applying a tumbler which stood on the center-table to her nose, and tasting some remaining crumbs in a plate.
"What is it?" repeated John, puffing away, not at the chibouk, but at the old clay pipe. "What is it?Why, it is the dregs of some molasses and water Jonathan has been drinking, and those crumbs are all that remain of a loaf of brown bread, for which I sent Mary to the grocer's. If he likes country fare he shall have it—why not, as well as your superfine Finels his olives, and sardines, and gimcracks? I pay the 'damages,' you know, Mrs. Howe;" and John's eye gave a triumphant twinkle.
"Of course, my dear—of course," replied that subjugated lady; "it is all right, my dear, and does great credit to your kindness of heart; but it is such averyodd, old-fashioned taste, you know;" and applying her embroidered handkerchief to her nose, she motioned Mary to remove the remains of the homespun feast.
Old Mrs. Bond had taken her station on the sunny side of her piazza. Mrs. Bond was no sentimentalist, as I have said before. She had never read a line of poetry in her life; but she had read her Bible, and she loved to watch the glorious sun go down, and think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, with its gates of pearl, and walls of jasper. Many a blessed vision from that sunset-seat had she seen with her spiritual eyes; and many a sealed passage in the Holy Book which lay upon her lap, had then, and there, and thus, been solved; and many a prayer had gone from thence swift-winged to heaven.
The Bible contains great and mighty truths which none of us may safely reject; but apart from this, no mind, how uncultivated soever, can be familiar with its glowing beauty and sublimity, without being unconsciously refined.
Oh! how many times, even to the God-forgetting, has the beauty of its imagery come home with a force and aptness which no uninspired pen, how gifted soever, could rival!
How vital and immovably lodged, though buried for years under the dust of worldliness, its wise and indisputable precepts!
How like a sun-flash they sometimes illume what else were forever mystery-shrouded!
And now the last tint of gold and crimson had faded out, and one bright star sparkled like a gem on the brow of the gray old mountain, behind which the sun had sank—bright as the Star of Bethlehem to Judea's gazing shepherds, and like them, Mrs. Bond knelt and worshiped.
Broad as the world was her Bible-creed: it embraced all nations, all colors, all sects. Whosoever did the will of God the same was her father, sister, and mother; and like the face of Moses when he came down from the mount, hers shone that evening with the reflected glory of heaven.
The traveler could not have told, as he stopped before that little brown house, and stepped on its homely piazza,whyhe raised his hat with such an involuntary deference to the unpretending form before him;whyhis simple "Good evening, madam," should have been so reverently spoken; but so it was; and the kind old lady's welcome to a seat by her frugal board was just as unaccountably to himself accepted.
The traveler was a tall, dark-browed man, with a face and form which must have been once pre-eminently attractive; but now, his fine dark eyes weresunken, as if grief, or sickness, perhaps both, had weighed heavily there; and his tall form seemed bent with weakness. All this his kind hostess noted, and her nicest cup of tea was prepared, and the wholesome loaf set before him, and a blessing craved over it, from lips which knew no fear of man, with Heaven in sight. Perhaps this touched a chord to which the stranger's heart vibrated, for his eyes grew moist with unshed tears, and his voice was tremulous when he addressed his hostess.
"Can you tell me, madam, how far it is to the nearest inn?"
"A weary way, sir—a matter of fifteen miles, and you so feeble. You are quite welcome to stay here, sir, till morning; and your horse will be well content in yonder pasture."
"You are very kind, madam," said the stranger, hesitatingly; then adding with a smile, "travelers who have preceded me on this road must have borne a good name."
"There is nothing here to tempt a thieving hand," said Mrs. Bond. "I seldom think at night of barring yonder door. Where one's trust is in an Almighty arm, there is little room for fear.
"I can remember when yonder broad oak was but a sapling. I was born and married here, sir; through that door my husband and child passed to their long home. My time can not be long; but whileI stay, every stone and twig in this place is dear to me."
"With pleasant memories for company, one can not be lonesome," replied the stranger.
"No—and sad ones may be made pleasant, if one only knows how," and she laid her withered hand on the Bible.
As she did so a paper fluttered out from between its leaves. "Sometimes, though," said she, as she took it up, "one's faith is sorely tried.
"This now—this letter—it was from my child. I called her my child, and yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me 'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; God knows she had sore need of it, poor lamb.
"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and sore.
"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome.Shewas good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word,sir; and when it came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and the babe just like dead.
"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined forhim—she fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide—and that he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her 'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim—but I have no need to read it, for the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself, sir—mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing—I should so like to know of her, before I die.
"The light is but dim, sir," said the old lady, as the traveler took it in his hand, and held the letter between his face and Mrs. Bond's.
Yes—the lightwasdim, so were the traveler's eyes; he must have been sadly feeble too, for his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold the letter.
"And you never heard from her, after this?" he asked, his eyes still riveted on the letter.
"Not a word, sir; it makes me so sad when I think of it; perhaps she may be dead."
"Perhaps so," answered the traveler, shuddering.
"May be you could make some inquiries, sir, if itwould not trouble you, as you go along; her name was Rose, though she looked more like a lily when she left us, poor thing! Rose—and her lover's name was Vincent; perhaps you may have heard ofhim."
"The name sounds familiar," said the stranger; "perhaps I shall be able to get some clew to it."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, gratefully; "and now, sir, as I get up early I go to rest early; so, if you please, I will show you your room; it is very plain—but it is all the spare one I have. It was poor Rose's room;" and Mrs. Bond taking her candle, led the way to it.
"There," said she, setting the light down upon the table, "many a time when she stood at that little window, sir, she and the babe, people stopped here to ask who they were, they were both so handsome, and so different from our country folks.
"On that very little table she left her letter; it was a long time before I could come here and feel that it was all right she should suffer so, although I know that God's ways are just; but I shall know all about it when I get to heaven; perhaps it was only 'the narrow way' to takeherthere—who knows? I would rather be Rose than they who brought her here; and yet," said the mild old lady, hesitatingly, "perhaps theythoughtthey did right, but riches make us take strange views of things; it takes grace to be arichChristian. And when I feel displeased with Mrs.Howe's heartlessness, I say,moneymight have turnedmeaside too—who knows? Good-night, sir; heaven send you sweet sleep;" and Mrs. Bond went down into her small kitchen.
And it was here—in this very room, that Rose had wept, and suffered, and wrestled with her great sorrow! On that very pillow her aching head vainly sought rest; at that window she had sat thinking—thinking—till brain and heart grew sick, and God himself seemed to have forsaken her; and down that road she had fled, like a hunted deer, with slander's cruel arrow rankling in her quivering heart!
Not onthatpillow could sleep woo our weary traveler.
At the little window he sat and saw the night-shadows deepen, and only the shivering trees, as the night-wind crept through them, made answer to his low moan,
"Rose! Rose!"
"Dear Tom,—"I am glad you are going abroad. You see Icanbe unselfish. How I wishIwere going! Of course you mean to take notes on the way. For Heaven's sake, if you do, don't bore us with re-vamping the travelers' guide-book, like all your predecessors; don't prate stereotyped stupidities about Madonnas, and Venuses, and Gladiators, or go mad over a bit of Vesuvius lava, or wear Mont Blanc or the Rhine threadbare. Spare us also all egotistical descriptions of your dinners and breakfasts with foreign literary lions, and great lords and ladies. Strike out a new path, 'an thou lovest me, Hal, or I will write your book down with one dash of my puissant goose-quill."Mrs. John has gone to the dogs. Well, listen, and I will tell you. As John's allowance to her grew fitful, so did my attentions; a man can not live on air you know, or waste his time where it will not pay. Mrs. John pouted, and I whistled. Mrs. John coaxed, and I sulked. Mrs. John took to drinking, and I tookFrench leave, making love to little Kate, who, I hear, has lately had a fortune left her. Well, I had quite lost sight of old Mrs. John for some months; I only knew that her husband was a hanger-on at Gripp's gambling-house, and, like all steady fellows when they break loose, was out-heroding Herod in every sort of dissipation, leaving Mrs. John to take care of herself."Well, the other night Harry and I—you remember Harry? that clever dog who always beat us at billiards—Harry and I were coming home about midnight, when we came across a policeman dragging off a woman, who was swearing at him like a privateersman. That was nothing to us, you know, or would not have been, had I not heard my name mentioned. I turned my head; the light from the gas-lamp fell full upon her bloated face, and, by Jove! if it was not old Mrs. John! her clothes half torn off her in the drunken scuffle, looking like the very witch of Endor. Wasn't it a joke? She died that night, at the station-house, of delirium tremens, shrieking for 'John,' and 'Rose,' and 'Finels,' and the deuce knows who. So we go. Have you seen the new danseuse, Felissitimi? If not, do so by all means when she comes to Baltimore. She will dance straight into your heart with her firstpas. I'm off, like all the world, to see her."As ever, yours,"Finels."
"Dear Tom,—
"I am glad you are going abroad. You see Icanbe unselfish. How I wishIwere going! Of course you mean to take notes on the way. For Heaven's sake, if you do, don't bore us with re-vamping the travelers' guide-book, like all your predecessors; don't prate stereotyped stupidities about Madonnas, and Venuses, and Gladiators, or go mad over a bit of Vesuvius lava, or wear Mont Blanc or the Rhine threadbare. Spare us also all egotistical descriptions of your dinners and breakfasts with foreign literary lions, and great lords and ladies. Strike out a new path, 'an thou lovest me, Hal, or I will write your book down with one dash of my puissant goose-quill.
"Mrs. John has gone to the dogs. Well, listen, and I will tell you. As John's allowance to her grew fitful, so did my attentions; a man can not live on air you know, or waste his time where it will not pay. Mrs. John pouted, and I whistled. Mrs. John coaxed, and I sulked. Mrs. John took to drinking, and I tookFrench leave, making love to little Kate, who, I hear, has lately had a fortune left her. Well, I had quite lost sight of old Mrs. John for some months; I only knew that her husband was a hanger-on at Gripp's gambling-house, and, like all steady fellows when they break loose, was out-heroding Herod in every sort of dissipation, leaving Mrs. John to take care of herself.
"Well, the other night Harry and I—you remember Harry? that clever dog who always beat us at billiards—Harry and I were coming home about midnight, when we came across a policeman dragging off a woman, who was swearing at him like a privateersman. That was nothing to us, you know, or would not have been, had I not heard my name mentioned. I turned my head; the light from the gas-lamp fell full upon her bloated face, and, by Jove! if it was not old Mrs. John! her clothes half torn off her in the drunken scuffle, looking like the very witch of Endor. Wasn't it a joke? She died that night, at the station-house, of delirium tremens, shrieking for 'John,' and 'Rose,' and 'Finels,' and the deuce knows who. So we go. Have you seen the new danseuse, Felissitimi? If not, do so by all means when she comes to Baltimore. She will dance straight into your heart with her firstpas. I'm off, like all the world, to see her.
"As ever, yours,"Finels."
"And here we are in Boston!" said Gertrude. "Find me any thing lovelier than this Common," she exclaimed, as she seated herself under the trees one sweet summer morning.
"See! Beyond Charles River the hills stretch away in the distance, while the fragrant breath of their woods and hay-fields come wafted on every passing breeze.
"And the Common! one might look till the eye grows weary through those long shady vistas, on whose smoothly-trodden paths the shifting sunlight scarce finds place, through the leafy roofs, to play.
"Look, Rose, at those lovely children gamboling on the velvet grass, fresher and sweeter than the clover-blossoms they hide in their bosoms.
"See! Up springs the fountain! like the out-gushing of Nature's full heart at its own sweet loveliness; leaping upward, then falling to earth again, only to rise with fresher beauty. No aristocratic 'park' key keeps out the poor man's child, for Bunker Hill lifts its granite finger of warning there in the distance, and the littleplebeian's soiled fingers are as welcome to pluck the butter-cups as his more dainty little neighbor's.
"God be thanked for that!" said Gertrude. "I well remember one balmy summer morning in New York, when my gipsy feet carried me out over the pavements in search of a stray blade of grass or a fresh blossom. My new dress was an 'open sesame' to one of the 'locked parks' under the charge of an old gardener. Lovely flowers were there, odorous shrubs, and graceful trees. The children of the privileged few, daintily clad, played in its nicely-graveled, shady walks.
"It was beautiful; but outside, the poor man's child, hollow-eyed and sad, crouched that balmy morning on the heated pavement, pressing his pale face close against the iron rails, looking and longing, as only the children of povertycanlook and long, into that forbidden Eden!
"It made my heart ache. I could not walk there. That little pale, sad face haunted me at every step. The very flowers were less sweet, the drooping trees less graceful, and the lovely green hedge seemed some tyrant jailor, within whose precincts my very breath grew thick; and so," said Gertrude, "I thank God for this 'Common'—free to all—yes,Common. I like the homely, democratic word.
"Not that there is no aristocracy in Boston," said she, laughing; "on the contrary, the Beacon-street millionaire, whose father might have made hisdébûtthree years ago as a tin peddler, looks down contemptuouslyon those who live outside this charmed locality. The Boston Unitarian never dreams of sharing the same heaven as the Boston Presbyterian, and this is the only platform on which he and the Boston Presbyterian meet! And 'High Church' and 'Low Church' are fenced off and labeled, with a touch-me-not precision, for which the 'Great Shepherd of the sheep' furnished no precedent.
"Still, Boston is a nice little place. One does not, as in New York, need to drive all the afternoon to get out into the country. Start for an afternoon drive in New York, you have your choice between the unmitigated gutter of its back streets, or a half hour's blockading of your wheels every fifteen minutes, in the more crowded thoroughfares. Add to this your detention at the ferry, blocked in by teams and carts, and forced to listen to their wrangling drivers, and you can compute, if you have an arithmetical turn, how much to subtract from the present, or prospective, enjoyment of the afternoon; which, by the way, the first evening star announces to be at an end, just as you arrive where a little light on a fine prospect would be highly desirable. This, to one whose preoccupied morning hours admit of no choice as to the time for riding, may, perhaps, without wresting the king's English, be called—tantalizing! But what drives areBostondrives! What green, winding lanes, what silver lakes, what lovely country-seats, what tasteful pleasure-grounds! And the carriages,so handsome, so comfortable; and the drivers so decent, respectable, and intelligent; so well-versed in the history of the city environs. Send for a chance carriage in New York, one hesitates to sit on its soiled cushions, dreads its dirty steps and wheels, and turns away disgusted from its loaferish driver, whiffing tobacco-smoke through the window in your face, and exchanging oaths with his comrade whom he is treating to a ride on the box. A handsome, cleanly public carriage, in New York, is as rare there, as a tastefully-dressed woman or a healthy-looking child.
"Then, Boston has its Sabbaths—its quiet, calm, blessed Sabbaths. No yelling milk-men or newsboys disturb its sacred stillness. Engines are not Sabbatically washed, and engine companies do not take that day to practice on tin horns; military companies do not play funereal Yankee Doodles; fruit-stalls do not offend your eye at street-corners, or open toy-shops in the back streets; but instead, long processions of families thread their way over the clean pavements to their respective churches, where the clergymen can preach three times a day without fainting away; where no poor servant-girl, whose morning hours are unavoidably occupied, finds, after a long walk there, her church closed in the afternoon, while her minister is at home taking his nap; where churches arenotshut up in the summer months, while the minister luxuriates in the country at his ease."
"You are severe," said John; "ministers are but men; their health requires respites."
"I am not speaking of cases where a clergyman is really unable to labor," said Gertrude; "but that habit of closing churches whole months in the summer, strikes me most painfully. Death has all seasons for his own—sorrow casts her shadow regardless of summer's heat or winter's cold. I can not think it right that families should be left withoutsomekind shepherd. Even then, with a substitute, every one knows there are sorrows, as well as joys, with which the most well-meaning stranger can not intermeddle.
"O, it is from the lips of one'sownpastor the parting soul would fain hear the soul-cheering promise.Hisconfiding ear that one would entreat for the tearful bed-side weepers! Verily those ministers have their reward, who, like their blessed Master, are 'not weary of well-doing.' It were worth some sacrifice of luxurious pleasure to ease one dying pang, to plume one broken wing for its eternal flight! It were sad to think the smallest and weakest lamb of the fold perished uncheered by the voice of its earthly shepherd. Ah! it was a life of self-denial that the 'Man of Sorrows' led."
"Quite a homily, Gertrude; you are evidently behind the progressive spirit of the times; when clergymen yacht and boat, and hunt and fish, and electioneer in the most layman-wise manner."
"I confess to conservatism on these points," said Gertrude; "I dislike a starched minister, as much as I dislike an undignified one. I dislike a stupid sermon, as much as I dislike a facetious or a ranting one; I dislike a pompous, solemn clergyman, as much as I dislike a jolly, story-telling, jovial one. A dignified, gentlemanly, courteous, consistent, genial clergyman, it were rare to find; though there are such, to whom, when I meet them, my very heart warms; to whom I would triumphantly point the carping unbeliever, who, because of the spots which defile too many a clerical cassock, sneers indiscriminately at the pulpit."
"Well—to change the subject, what have you to show Rose and me, here in Boston?" asked John.
"Use your eyes," said Gertrude; "do you not see that the gutters are inodorous; that the sidewalks are as clean as a parlor-floor; that the children are healthy, and sensibly dressed; that the gentlemen here do not smoke in public; that the intellectual, icicle women glide through the streets, all dressed after one pattern, with their mouths puckered up as if they were going to whistle; and that there is a general air of substantiality and well-to-do-ativeness pervading the place; a sort of touch-me-not, pharisaical atmosphere of 'stand-aside' propriety?
"Do you not see that slops are not thrown at your ankles from unexpected back doors, basements, or windows; that tenement-houses and palatial residences donot stand cheek by jowl; that Boston men are handsome, but provincial, and do you not know that the munificence of her rich men is proverbial.
"Yes, John, Boston is a nice little place; that its inhabitants go to church three times on Sunday, is a fixed fact, and that many of them discuss fashions going, and slander their neighbors coming back, is quite as fixed a fact. If I should advise her, it would be after this wise.
"Hop out of thy peck measure, oh Boston! and take at least ahalfbushel view of things, so shalt thou be weighed in the balance, and not be found wanting!
"And yet thou hast thy sweet Mount Auburn! and for that I will love thee. What place of sepulture can compare with it? Planted by Nature's own prodigal and tasteful hand, with giant oaks and cedars nesting myriad birds, now flitting through the sun-flecked branches, now pluming their wings from some moss-grown grave-stone, and soaring upward like the freed spirit, over whose mortal dust their sweetest requiem is sung.
"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful when summer's warm breath distills spicy odors from thousand flowers, trembling with countless dewy diamonds; beautiful when the hushed whisper passes through its tall treetops, as weeping trains of mourners wind slowly with their dead beneath them.
"Beautiful at daybreak! when the sun gilds thysacred temple; when the first wakeful bird trills out his matin song.
"Beautiful when evening's star creeps softly out, to light the homeless widow's footstep to the grave of him, whose strong arm lies stricken at her trembling feet.
"Beautiful when the radiant moon silvers lovingly some humble grave, monumentless but for the living statue—Grief!
"Beautiful, even when winter's pall softly descends over its sacred dust; when the tall pines, in their unchanging armor of green, stand firm, like some brave body-guard, while all around is fading, falling, dying; pointing silently upward, where there is no shadow of change.
"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful even to the laughing eye which sorrow never dimmed; beautiful even to the bounding foot, which despair never paralyzed at the tomb's dark portal—butsacredto the rifled heart whose dearest treasures lay folded to thy fragrant bosom!"
"Is that you, John? because if it is, you can not come in," said Gertrude, opening the door just wide enough for her head to be seen.
"I am so miserable, Gertrude."
"Poor John! Well, just wait a bit, and I will open the door;" and darting back into the room, Gertrude shuffled away a picture on which she had been painting, and then threw open the door of her studio.
"Poor John, what is it?" and Gertrude seated herself on the lounge beside him, and laid her cheek against his, "what is it, John?"
"I am so dissatisfied and vexed with myself," said her brother, "I thought I was disinterested and unselfish, and I am not. I have caught myself hoping that Rose's dream mightnotprove true—that Vincent might never appear, so that I might win her—and she so bound up in him, too! I am a disgrace to my manhood, Gertrude, a poor, miserable, vacillating, unhappy wretch."
"No, you are not," said Gertrude, kissing his moist eyelids; "only a great soul would have made the generous confession which has just passed your lips; amore ignoble nature would have excused and palliated it, perhaps denied its existence; youaregenerous, and noble, and good, and I only wish you were not my brother, that I might marry you myself;" and she tried to force a smile upon John's face, by peeping archly into it.
"Do not jest with me, Gertrude; comfort me if you can. I too have had my dream; I am about to lose Rose. I can not tell you about it now, it is too painfully vivid. How can I live without love? without Rose's love? Tell me how you learned, Gertrude, to tame down that fiery heart of yours."
Gertrude only replied by her caresses; for, in truth, her heart was too full.
There is anoutwardlife visible to all; there is aninwardlife known only to our own souls, and Him who formed them.
WasGertrude's heart "tamed?"
Ah, there were moments when she threw aside book, pallet, and pencil, when she could listen only to its troubled, mournful wailings, because there was nothing in all the wide earth, that could satisfy its cravings. Only in the Infinite can such a spirit find rest; and leaning her head upon John's shoulder, Gertrude sang:
"Oh, ask thou, hope thou not too muchFrom sympathy below;Few are the hearts whence one same touchBids the sweet fountains flow:Few, and by still conflicting powers,Forbidden here to meet,Such ties would make this world of oursToo fair for aught so fleet;"But for those bonds all perfect made,Wherein bright spirits blend;Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,With the same breeze that bends.For that full bliss of soul alliedNever to mortals given;Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside,Or lift them up to Heaven!"
"Oh, ask thou, hope thou not too muchFrom sympathy below;Few are the hearts whence one same touchBids the sweet fountains flow:Few, and by still conflicting powers,Forbidden here to meet,Such ties would make this world of oursToo fair for aught so fleet;"But for those bonds all perfect made,Wherein bright spirits blend;Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,With the same breeze that bends.For that full bliss of soul alliedNever to mortals given;Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside,Or lift them up to Heaven!"
"Oh, ask thou, hope thou not too muchFrom sympathy below;Few are the hearts whence one same touchBids the sweet fountains flow:Few, and by still conflicting powers,Forbidden here to meet,Such ties would make this world of oursToo fair for aught so fleet;
"Oh, ask thou, hope thou not too much
From sympathy below;
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few, and by still conflicting powers,
Forbidden here to meet,
Such ties would make this world of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet;
"But for those bonds all perfect made,Wherein bright spirits blend;Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,With the same breeze that bends.For that full bliss of soul alliedNever to mortals given;Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside,Or lift them up to Heaven!"
"But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend;
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bends.
For that full bliss of soul allied
Never to mortals given;
Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them up to Heaven!"
"You are a good girl, Gertrude," said her brother. "I am no Puritan, but your song has soothed me. Theremustbe something more satisfying in another state of existence than there is in this, else were our very being a mockery."
"Poor John; he will arrive at the truth by and by," said Gertrude, as he left the room. "I think it is easier for woman to lean upon an Almighty arm; it is only through disappointment and suffering that man's proud spirit is bowed childlike before the cross. And how, when it gets there, the soul looks wondering back that it should ever have opposed its own poor pride of self to Calvary's meek sufferer!"
How the wind roared! how the sails creaked and flapped! and the tall masts groaned! How the great vessel rolled from side to side, and tossed hither and thither, like a plaything for the winds and waves. The poor invalid groaned in his berth with pain andennui. It mattered little to him whether the vessel ever made port or not. Sea-sickness is a great leveler, making the proud and haughty spirit quail before it, and disposing it to receive a sympathizing word from even the humblest.
"A rough sea, sir," said the captain, stripping off his shaggy deck-coat, and seating himself by the side of the invalid; "rough even for us old sea-dogs; but for a landsman, ah! I see it has taken you all aback," and the captain smiled as a man may smile who is quits with old Neptune in his fiercest moods.
"I can't say, though," continued the captain, "that you looked any too robust when you came on board. I suppose we must take that into the account. I hope you find yourself comfortable here—stewardess attentive, and so on. She is an uncouth creature, but seemsto understand her business. Ah! had you been aboard my ship some years ago, you would have seen a stewardess! Such a noiseless step; such a gentle voice; such a soft touch; it was quite worth while to be sick to be so gently cared for."
The invalid made no reply, save to turn his head languidly on the pillow; he was too weak, and sick, and dispirited to take any interest in the old captain's story.
"I wonder what ever became of her," continued the captain, tapping on the lid of his snuff-box; "I made all sorts of inquiries when I returned from my last voyage. Such a boy as she had with her! You should have seen that boy (bless me, I hope you'll excuse my sneezing). Such a pair of eyes; black—like what, I fancy, yours might have been when you were young, and handsomer; he was a splendid child. We thought one spell the little fellow was going to slip his cable; but he managed to weather the storm, and came out from his sickness brighter than ever. Poor Rose! how she did love him!"
"Rose?" asked the invalid, for the first time betraying any sign of interest.
"Yes; pretty name, wasn't it? and just sweet enough for her too. But, poor girl, she was a blighted Rose!" and the old captain set his teeth together, and bringing his horny palm down on his knee, exclaimed, "Great Cæsar! I should like to see the rascal whobroke that woman's heart run up to the yard-arm yonder. I don't care how fine a broad-cloth such a fellow wears; the better his station the greater his sin, and the more weight his damning example carries with it. If a man wants to do a mean action, let him not select a woman to victimize. Yes, sir, as I said before, I should like to have that fellow dangling from yonder yard-arm! I am an old man, and have seen a great deal of this sort of thing in my travels round the world. The laws need righting on this subject, and if men were not so much interested in letting them remain as they are, women would be better protected. Imprisonment for life is none too heavy a penalty for such an offense. It is odd," said the old captain, reflectively, "how a woman will forgive every thing to a man she loves. Now that poor little Rose—she clung to the belief that her lover had neither betrayed nor deserted her—isn't it odd now? and isn't it a cursed shame," said the old captain, striking his hand down again on his knee, "that the most angelic trait in woman's nature should be the very noose by which man drags her down to perdition? Hang it, I could almost foreswear my own sex when I think of it.
"But you don't agree with me, I suppose," said the captain, unbuttoning his vest, as if it impeded the play of his feelings. "You young fellows are not apt to look on it in this light. Youwill, sir, if you ever have daughters. Every such victim is somebody's daughter,somebody's sister. No man can indulge in illicit gratification—not even with a consenting party—and say he does no wrong. In the first place, as I look at it, he blunts his own moral sense; secondly, that of his companion; for it is well known that even the most depraved have moments when their better natures are in the ascendant; who can tell thaton himdoes not rest the responsibility of balancing the scales at such a critical moment? Thirdly, the weight of his example on society; for none, not even the humblest, is without his influence; the smallest pebble thrown into a lake will widen out its circle; but I am talking too much to you," said the old captain; "I think of these things oftener since I saw poor Rose. You must forgive me if I said aught to displease you."
The invalid stretched out his hand, and said, with a languid smile, "I have not strength to talk to you about it now, captain; but God will surely bless you for befriending poor Rose, as you call her."
"Oh, that's a trifle!" said the captain; "it was a blessing to look on her sweet face and the boy's; you should see that boy, sir; any father might have been proud ofhim. Good-day; bear up, now. Nobody dies of sea-sickness. We shall make port before long. Let me know if you want any thing. Good-day, sir."
"Weeping! dear Gertrude," exclaimed John, as he entered his sister's studio, and seated himself by her side.
Gertrude laid her head upon his shoulder without replying.
"You do not often see me thus," she said, after a pause. "To-day is the anniversary of my husband's death, and as I sat at the window and saw the autumn wind showering down the bright leaves, I thought of that mournful October day, when, turning despairingly away from his dying moans, I walked to the window of his sick room, and saw the leaves eddying past as they do now. I could almost see again before me that pallid face, almost hear those fleeting, spasmodic breaths, and all the old agony woke up again within me. And yet," said Gertrude, smiling through her tears, "such blissful memories of his love came with it! Oh! surely, John, love like this perishes not with its object—dies not in this world?
"And my little Arthur, too, John—you have never seen my treasures. You have never looked upon the faces which made earth such a paradise for me;" andtouching a spring in a rosewood box near her, Gertrude drew from it the pictures of her husband and child, and as John scanned their features in silence, she leaned upon his shoulder, and the bright teardrops fell like rain upon them.
"It is seldom that I allow myself to look at them," she said. "I were unfitted else for life's duties."
"It is a fine face,", said John, gazing at that of Gertrude's husband. "It is a faithful index of the noble soul you worship. Your boy's face is yours in miniature, Gertrude."
"Yes; and I so deplored it after my husband's death; I used to watch so eagerly for one flitting expression of his father's."
John replaced the pictures in the box with a sigh, and sat a few moments thinking.
"Gertrude, do you know that your nature would never have fully developed itself in prosperity? The rain was as needful as the sunshine to ripen and perfect it."
"Yes, I feel that," said his sister. "And when I look around and see divided households; husbands and wives wedded to misery; parents, whose clutching love for gold swallows up every parental feeling; children, whose memories of home are hate, and discord, and all uncharitableness, I hug my brief day of unalloyed happiness to my bosom, and cheerfully accept my lot at His hand who hath disposed it."
"Dear Tom—"Received your last letter by the Baltic. It was a gem, as usual. If your book is half as good, you will make your reputation and a fortune out of it. I knew you would like Paris; it is the only place in the world to live in. I hope yet to end my days there."And speaking of ending days, I have the most extraordinary thing to tell you:"Jack—our glorious dare-devil Jack—has turned parson! Actual parson—black coat, white neck-tie, and long-tailed surtout—it is incredible! The little opera-dancer, Felissitimi, laughed till she was black in the face when I told her. It is no laughing matter to me, though, for he was always my shadow. I miss him at the club, the billiard-table, at King street, and every where else. It is confoundedly provoking. I feel like half a pair of scissors, and wander round in a most unriveted state."Such crowds as Jack draws to hear him! There is no church in town that will hold all his admiring listeners.Ihave not been, from principle, because Ithink all that sort of thing is a deuced humbug, and I won't countenance it. But the other night, Menia did not perform, as was announced on the play-bills, and I looked about quite at a loss where to spend my evening. The first thing I knew, I found myself borne along with the current toward John's church. Then I said to myself 'Now if that crowd choose to relieve me of the responsibility of countenancing John's nonsense, bypushingme into that church, well and good;' so I just resigned myself to the elbowing tide. And, by Jove! the first thing I knew, there I was, in a broad aisle-pew, sitting down as demure as if I were Aminidab Sleek."Well, pretty soon John came in. How well he had got himself up in that black suit! It was miraculous. I looked round on the women—hehad them! With that musical voice of his, even that old hymn he read, sounded as well as any thing of Byron's. His prayer was miraculous!—I can't think how he did it; one would have supposed he felt every syllable; but you and I know Jack."Well, then came the sermon. 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.' He said it was in the Bible, and I suppose it was; I never heard of it before, but that may be for want of reading. By that time I was all eyes and ears. I knew he had impudence enough, so I was not afraid of his breaking down; and if he did, so muchthe better; there'd be something to laugh at him about."Now, Tom, you can't credit what I am going to tell you; that fellow began to relate his own experience; beginning with the prayers and hymns his mother taught him, and which he gradually lost the recollection of after she died, and as he grew older; then he described—and, by Jove, he did it well—his past downward steps, as he called them (I think that expression is open to discussion, Tom), the temptations of his youth, the gradual searing of conscience, and Satan's final triumph, when he cast off all restraint, and acknowledged no law but the domination of his own mad passions. Then he described his life at that point,ourlife—(I wonder if he sawmethere?) he spoke of the occasional twinges of conscience, growing fainter, fainter, and at last dying out altogether."Then came his waking up from that long trance of sin, our meeting with that old lady in the street—(you remember, Tom), and the tearful look which she bent on him, when in reply to some remark of mine, he exclaimed,"'Jesus Christ!'"Then, how that look had haunted him, tortured him, by day and night; how it had wakened to new life all the buried memories of childhood—his mother's prayers and tears, and dying words; and how, after wrestling with it, through deeper depths of sin thanany into which he had yet plunged, he had yielded to the holy spell, and that 'Jesus Christ' had now become to him, with penitential utterance, 'My Lord and my God.'"Tom—there was not a dry eye in that church when Jack got through, no—not even mine, for I caught the infection (I might as well own it); I felt as wicked as old King Herod; and all day to-day—it is a rainy day, though, and I suppose, when the sun shines out, I shall feel better, I have not been able to get that sermon out of my mind. I don't believe in it, of course not; hang me if I know whatdoesail me; I am inclined to think it is a bad fit of indigestion. I must have a game at billiards. Write me."Yours,"Finels."
"Dear Tom—
"Received your last letter by the Baltic. It was a gem, as usual. If your book is half as good, you will make your reputation and a fortune out of it. I knew you would like Paris; it is the only place in the world to live in. I hope yet to end my days there.
"And speaking of ending days, I have the most extraordinary thing to tell you:
"Jack—our glorious dare-devil Jack—has turned parson! Actual parson—black coat, white neck-tie, and long-tailed surtout—it is incredible! The little opera-dancer, Felissitimi, laughed till she was black in the face when I told her. It is no laughing matter to me, though, for he was always my shadow. I miss him at the club, the billiard-table, at King street, and every where else. It is confoundedly provoking. I feel like half a pair of scissors, and wander round in a most unriveted state.
"Such crowds as Jack draws to hear him! There is no church in town that will hold all his admiring listeners.Ihave not been, from principle, because Ithink all that sort of thing is a deuced humbug, and I won't countenance it. But the other night, Menia did not perform, as was announced on the play-bills, and I looked about quite at a loss where to spend my evening. The first thing I knew, I found myself borne along with the current toward John's church. Then I said to myself 'Now if that crowd choose to relieve me of the responsibility of countenancing John's nonsense, bypushingme into that church, well and good;' so I just resigned myself to the elbowing tide. And, by Jove! the first thing I knew, there I was, in a broad aisle-pew, sitting down as demure as if I were Aminidab Sleek.
"Well, pretty soon John came in. How well he had got himself up in that black suit! It was miraculous. I looked round on the women—hehad them! With that musical voice of his, even that old hymn he read, sounded as well as any thing of Byron's. His prayer was miraculous!—I can't think how he did it; one would have supposed he felt every syllable; but you and I know Jack.
"Well, then came the sermon. 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.' He said it was in the Bible, and I suppose it was; I never heard of it before, but that may be for want of reading. By that time I was all eyes and ears. I knew he had impudence enough, so I was not afraid of his breaking down; and if he did, so muchthe better; there'd be something to laugh at him about.
"Now, Tom, you can't credit what I am going to tell you; that fellow began to relate his own experience; beginning with the prayers and hymns his mother taught him, and which he gradually lost the recollection of after she died, and as he grew older; then he described—and, by Jove, he did it well—his past downward steps, as he called them (I think that expression is open to discussion, Tom), the temptations of his youth, the gradual searing of conscience, and Satan's final triumph, when he cast off all restraint, and acknowledged no law but the domination of his own mad passions. Then he described his life at that point,ourlife—(I wonder if he sawmethere?) he spoke of the occasional twinges of conscience, growing fainter, fainter, and at last dying out altogether.
"Then came his waking up from that long trance of sin, our meeting with that old lady in the street—(you remember, Tom), and the tearful look which she bent on him, when in reply to some remark of mine, he exclaimed,
"'Jesus Christ!'
"Then, how that look had haunted him, tortured him, by day and night; how it had wakened to new life all the buried memories of childhood—his mother's prayers and tears, and dying words; and how, after wrestling with it, through deeper depths of sin thanany into which he had yet plunged, he had yielded to the holy spell, and that 'Jesus Christ' had now become to him, with penitential utterance, 'My Lord and my God.'
"Tom—there was not a dry eye in that church when Jack got through, no—not even mine, for I caught the infection (I might as well own it); I felt as wicked as old King Herod; and all day to-day—it is a rainy day, though, and I suppose, when the sun shines out, I shall feel better, I have not been able to get that sermon out of my mind. I don't believe in it, of course not; hang me if I know whatdoesail me; I am inclined to think it is a bad fit of indigestion. I must have a game at billiards. Write me.
"Yours,"Finels."
"How you grow, Charley," said John, tossing him up on his shoulder, and walking up to the looking-glass. "It seems but yesterday that you lay wrapped up in your blanket a-board Captain Lucas' ship with your thumb in your mouth (that unfailing sign of a good-natured baby), thinking of nothing at all; and now here you are six years' old to-day—think of that man? and I dare say you expect a birth-day present."
"Yes, if you please," said Charley.
"There, now; that is to the point. I like an honest boy. What will you have, Charley?"
"Something pretty for my mamma," said the loving little heart.
"Better still," said John; "but mamma won't take presents. I have tried her a great many times. There is one I want very much to make her, but she always says 'No.'" And John glanced at Gertrude.
"Mind what you say," whispered his sister. "He might chance to repeat it to his mother."
"So much the better, Gertrude. Then she will be sure to think of me at least one minute.
"But, Charley, tell me whatyouwant. I would like to get you something foryourself."
"I want my papa," said Charley, resolutely. "Tommy Fritz keeps saying that I 'haven't got any papa.'Haven'tI got a papa, cousin John?"
"You have a Father in heaven," said John, kissing Charley as he evaded the earnest question.
"When did he die? I want you to tell me all about him, cousin John, because Tommy Fritz sits next me at school and teases me so about not having any papa."
"Fritz?" repeated John, turning to Gertrude; "Fritz?—the name sounds familiar. Where could I have heard it? Fritz?" and John paced up and down the room, trying to remember.
"Yes, Tommy Fritz," repeated Charley; "and Tommy's big brother comes to school with him some days, and he saw me, and told Tommy that I hadn't any papa."
"Did you say any thing to your mamma about it?" asked John.
"No," said Charley, with a very resolute shake of the head, "because it always makes mamma look so sad when I talk to her about papa; but I don't want Tommy to plague me any more. Is it bad not to have a papa, cousin John?"
"There are a great many little boys whose papas are dead," said John. "Yes, it is bad for them, because they feel lonesome without them, just as you do."
Charley looked very earnestly in John's face, as if he were not satisfied with his answer, and yet as if he did not know how better to make himself understood. Looking thoughtfully on the ground a few moments, he said—
"Was my papa good, cousin John?"
John drew Charley closer to his breast. "I did not know your papa, my dear, but your mamma loves him very much, and she is so good herself that I think she would not love him so were he not a good man."
"I'msoglad!" exclaimed Charley, with sparkling eyes. "May I tell Tommy Fritz that?" he asked, with the caution acquired by too early an acquaintance with sorrow.
"Certainly," said John, secretly resolving to inquire into this Fritz matter himself.
"Your mother is calling you, Charley," said Gertrude. "Poor little fellow," she added, as he ran nimbly out of the room. "Just think of a child with such a frank outspoken nature, burying such a corroding mystery in his own loving little heart, rather than pain his mother by asking for a solution. Poor Rose—the haunting specter which her prophet-eye discerned in her child's future, has assumed shape sooner than even she dreamed. Who can this 'big Fritz' be, John? and where could he have known Rose?"
"I have it," exclaimed John, stopping suddenly before his sister, with a deep red flush upon his face."This Fritz was a fellow-passenger of Rose's and mine on board Captain Lucas's vessel. The conceited puppy imagined that Rose would save him the trouble of gathering her by dropping at his feet—he found thorns instead of a rose, and his wounded vanity has taken this mean revenge. But he shall learn Rose has a protector," said John, folding his arms, and closing his lips firmly together.
"I shall do nothing rashly," said he, shaking off the clasp of Gertrude's hand. "Puppy"—he exclaimed—"contemptible coward, with all his pretensions to the title of a gentleman, to slander a woman!"
"Defining the word gentleman in that way," answered Gertrude, "the ranks would be pretty well thinned out. Some do it with a shrug—some with an uplifted eyebrow—some with a curl of the lip—some with a protracted whistle; and many a 'gentleman,' to make himself the paltry hero of the hour, has uttered boasting words of vanity, false as his own black heart; and many a virtuous woman has had occasion to repel insults growing out of this dastardly mention of her name before strangers, that else would never have been offered her. The crime is so common as to excite little or no reprehension, as to be little or no barrier in the intercourse between gentlemen. If every man who honors woman, and who finds himself in such unscrupulous society—testified his abhorrence by turning his back upon such a circle, the rebuke would soon tell. Therearethose whose standard of manly honor requires this in an associate.
"What! going, John?"
"Yes, I am too irritable to be good company; I must cool off my indignation by a walk in the open air. Go and sit with Rose, Gertrude; it may be that Charley may drop some word that will make known to her this new trouble."
"Never fear him," said Gertrude, "I don't know whether to call it instinct or tact, but he always seems to know what to say, and what to leave unsaid; he has the most lightning perceptions of any child I ever saw. No subtle shade of meaning in conversation seems to escape him, and he will often drop a remark which convinces you that he has grasped the subject at the very moment you are contriving some way to elucidate your meaning. Poor little Charley—it is always such natures whose heritage is sorrow."
The old Bond mansion, though threatening to tumble down at every wind-gust, stood just where Rose had left it. The woodbine still festooned its piazza with green garlands in summer, and scarlet and purple berries and leaves in autumn. The tall butternut-trees still stood sentinel before it, the old moss-roofed barn leaned over on one side, like some old veteran whose work was almost done, and the iron-gray horse still took his afternoon-roll on the grass-plot before the door, kicking up his hoofs in the very face of old Time. The brown chickens, once Charley's delight, had become respectable mothers of families, and clucked round after their lordly chanticleer, too happy to escape with half a dozen rebuffs a day from his majesty, and old Bruno, the house-dog, took longer naps on the sunny side of the house, and was less irascible at tin peddlers and stray cattle. The once nicely-kept little garden was overrun with pig-weed and nettles, and the tall, slender hollyhocks swung hither and thither with their flushed faces, like some awkward overgrown school-girl, looking for a place to hide.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and yet old Mrs. Bond had not thrown open the kitchen-door opposite the well-sweep, or filled the tea-kettle, or kindled up the kitchen-fire for tea. But look! a strange woman steps out upon the piazza; such a woman as every country village boasts; round, rubicund, check-aproned and spectacled, with very long cap-strings, turtle-shaped feet, thick ankles, and no waist. With her fat, red hands crossed over the place where her waist once was, she steps out on the piazza and looks over her spectacles, this way and that, up and down the road.
The little brook babbles on as usual, and the linden-trees and maples are nodding and whispering to each other across the road; but nothing else is stirring. So Mrs. Simms goes back into the house, and closes the door, and Bruno gives a low growl to signify that all is right, as far as he knows.
Then Mrs. Simms lays her hand on the latch of the sitting-room door, and softly glides in. It is very dark; just a ray of light is shining in through a chink in the shutter. She opens it a little further, and the pleasant afternoon sunlight streams in across the floor—across the pine table—across the coffin—across the placid face of good, dear, old Mrs. Bond.
She has gone to that city where "there is no need of the sun, nor of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof."
And now the neighbors drop in gently, one by one. Not one there but can remember some simple act of kindness, which makes the warm tears drop upon the placid face, upon which they are looking for the last time. Mrs. Bond had no kin; and yet every trembling lip there, called her "mother."
Not for thee, "mother," whom the busy world honored not, whom the Lord of Glory crowned; not fortheethe careless city sepulture, the jostled hearse, the laughing, noisy, busy crowd. Reverently the prayer is said; now the little, rosy child is lifted up, to see how sweet a smile even icy Death may wear; and now toil-hardened hands, though kindly, bear her gently on to the quiet corner in the leafy church-yard, to which she has so long looked forward. The mold has fallen on her breast, the grave is spaded over, and still they linger, loth to leave even to the fragrant night, the kindly heart which had beat so long responsive to their homely joys and sorrows.
Oh, many such an earth-dimmed diamond shall Jehovah set sparkling in his crown, in the day when he maketh up his jewels.