"Be easy, my dear child. You need not feel so pained. Charley loves you,
and you love him, and we all love one another. Charley is a dear boy,
and you mustn't plague him. I will tell you all about it, dear. When
Charley came home, and I made him tell me about you, I know, from what
he said, that you were--But I won't praise you to your face. Hasn't
Charley seen plenty of girls, handsome girls, educated, accomplished?
And haven't I watched him these years, to see when Love would catch him?
Haven't I searched his face, time and again, for signs of love at his
heart? When he came home in the spring, I saw that his time had come,
and trouble with it. I made him _tell_, for I would not send him away
with a grief shut up in his heart. Then I contrived this plan of seeing
and knowing you, dear. I knew that Charley would never have been so
deeply moved, had you not been worthy; but, my dear child, I never
thought of loving you so! I shall be so proud, if you will be my
sister,--for you will, I know. You can't refuse such a dear boy as
Charley!"
I still held Rachel by the hand; and while Fanny was speaking so
earnestly, my other hand, of itself, went creeping around her waist, and
drew her close to me.
"You can't refuse," I whispered, reposting Fanny's words; and I knew by
the look in her face, and the way her heart beat, that she couldn't.
But Fanny was one who never liked deep waters. Seeing that matters were
growing earnest, she rose quickly to the surface, and went rattling on,
in her lively way.
"Now, come, you two, and sit down in this cozy seat. You have never had
a nice time all to yourselves, to make love in. Ah! how well you look
together! Just room enough! Rachel, dear, rest your head on Charley's
shoulder. You must. Charley always minds me, and you will have to. Now,
buddy, just drop your head on hers a minute. Capital! Your light curls
make her hair look more like black velvet than ever! That will do. Now I
leave you to your fate. I am rattle-headed, I know, but I hope I have
some consideration."
And so she left us, sitting there in the twilight, in the solemn hush of
Saturday night.
The next day we all went to meeting. It seemed good that I was only to
spend Sunday at home. The quiet, the air of solemnity all around us,
harmonized well with the song my own soul was singing. It was
Sabbath-day within, one long, blessed Sabbath, with which the bustle of
week-day life would ill accord. That perfect day I never forgot. Even
now I can scent its roses in the air. Even now I can almost feel the
daisies brushing against my feet, while walking up the narrow lane on
our way to church,--can see the sweetbrier by the red gate, and myself
giving Rachel one of its blossoms.
During the rest of the term I had frequent letters from Fanny and
Rachel, telling how happy they both were, and what talks they had in the
apple-tree,--telling that Aunt Huldah _knew_, but wasn't angry, only
just a little at Fanny, for being so sly. Then came the long summer
vacation. The very day I got home, the solemn young minister called.
Fanny said that he came often, but she thought he would do so no longer,
for he would see that it was of no use to be looking at Rachel. He did,
however, and Rachel said he came to look at Fanny. I bestirred myself,
therefore, to become acquainted with him. His stiffness was only of the
manners. I found him a genial, cultivated, warm-hearted person; in fact,
I liked him. How cold the word sounds now, applied to one whom I
afterwards came to love as a brother, whose gentle heart sympathized in
all our troubles, whose tears were ever ready to mingle with our own!
He gave us every opportunity of finding him out, joined us in our sunset
walks, and in our long sittings under the trees. I soon came to be well
satisfied that he should look at Fanny,--satisfied that she should watch
for his coming, and blush when he came. I was happy to see the mist she
once spoke of slowly gathering before her own eyes, and to know, from
the strange quiet which came over her, that some new influence was at
work within her heart.
The beauty of Rachel seemed each day more brilliant. Amid such happy
influences, the lively, genial side of her nature expanded like a flower
in the sunshine. "The soul of Rachel Lowe," having no longer to stand
alone, bearing the weight of its own sorrows, brought its energies to
promote the happiness of us all. She contrived pleasant surprises, and
charmed Aunt Huldah with her constant acts of kindness. She sang
beautiful songs, and filled the house with flowers; and when we sat
long, in the cool of the evening, out under the trees, she would relate
strange, wild stories which she had heard from her mother,--stories of
other times and distant lands.
Meanwhile Aunt Huldah was as kind as heart could wish, treating us
tenderly, and as if we were little children; and one stormy night, when
we four sat with her in the keeping-room, talking, until daylight faded,
and the short twilight left us nearly in darkness, she told us some
things about her own youth, things of which, by daylight, she would
never have spoken,--and told, too, of a dear, only brother, who was
ruined for all time, and, she feared, for eternity also, from being
crossed in love by the strong will of his father. Aunt Huldah had a
tender heart. Her voice grew thick and hoarse, while telling the story.
I was always glad we had that talk. It made us know her better. She
lived only a year after. She died in June, when the grass was green and
the roses were in bloom,--just a year from that Sabbath I spent at home,
that perfect day when I walked to meeting with Rachel up the grassy
lane. With sad hearts, we laid her to rest in a spot that she loved,
where the sweet-fern and wild-roses were growing,--with sad, grateful
hearts, for she had been to us as father, mother, and true friend. We
loved her for the affection she showed, and still more for that which we
knew she concealed within herself,--for the tenderness she would not let
be revealed.
The next year Rachel and I were married, thus making the month of June
trebly sacred. We had a double wedding; for the young minister, finding
that he had looked at Fanny too long for his own tranquillity, proposed
to mend matters in a way which no one whose faculties were not strangely
betwisted by love would ever have thought of. And my sister must either
have secretly liked the plan, or else have lost her old faculty of
managing; for, when he said, "Come, Fanny, and let us dwell together in
the parsonage," she went, just as quiet as a lamb.
Rachel and I remained, and do remain to this day, at the old house.
Fanny said we ought to go into the world,--that I might possibly become
brilliant, and Rachel would certainly be admired. But the first of these
suggestions had little weight with me; and Rachel said how nice it would
be to live here among the apple-trees, near Fanny, to read books, sing
songs, and so have a good time all our lives!
"And have nobody but Charley see how handsome you are!" exclaimed Fanny.
Rachel didn't color at this, but remarked, a little roguishly, that she
would rather have one of those sidelong looks I used to give her in the
old school-house than all the admiration in the world.
This was the time when I chose my profession, as mentioned in the
beginning. And I may say that we _have_ had a good time all our lives.
Yet we have known sorrow. Four times has the dark shadow fallen upon our
hearts; four sad processions have passed up the narrow lane; four little
graves, by the side of Aunt Huldah's, show where, standing together, we
wept tears of agony! Yet we stood together; and Rachel, who knew so
well, taught me how to bear. In every hour of anguish I have found
myself leaning upon the strong, steadfast "soul of Rachel Lowe." I say
still, therefore, that we have had a good time, for we have loved one
another all our lives. And we have never been too much alone. Plenty of
friends have been glad to come and see us; and on Anniversary Week we
have usually made a journey to Boston, to wear off the rust, and get
stirred up generally. We attend most frequently the Anti-Slavery
Conventions. I know of no better place, whether for getting stirred up,
or wearing off the rust. That couple whom you may have noticed
sitting near the platform--that bald-headed old gentleman and
intelligent-looking elderly lady--are my wife and I. We met with the
early Abolitionists in a stable; we saw Garrison dragged through the
streets, and heard Phillips's first speech in Faneuil Hall.
I have always kept my old habit of watching pretty faces; only I don't
look sideways now: for the girls never think that an old man cares to
see them; but he does. We have one son, who Fanny devoutly hopes will
turn out better than his father. May he go through life as happily! And
he is in a fair way for it. I like to see him with Jenny, the pretty
daughter of my friend the watchmaker. If my good friend thinks to keep
always with him that youngest one of his flock, he will find his
mistake; for it was only yesterday that I saw them sitting together on
the seat in the low-branching apple-tree.
* * * * *