putting the candle upon it, "if you think it will ease your heart to go
and see the old folks a little while, I am willing you should."
He never spoke of the utter loneliness that fell upon him at the
thought of her going away, and how to him, too, the dim room was full
of the golden hair and the blue eyes of his child.
She said nothing.
"When will you come back, Margery?" he asked, after another pause.
"I don't know, John."
"When do you think of going?"
"On Monday morning, if you can spare the horse to take me over."
"I think I can, Margery; but I shall be sorry to lose my little wify so
soon," he could not help saying, as he laid his rough hand on her hair,
with so soft a touch that the tears started to her eyes.
"I shall ask Mary to come here and keep house for you, while I am
away," she said. "Mary is used to our ways, and can do for you very
well."
"Mary?" asked John, "I reckon she will be busy enough at harvest-time.
I need nobody when you are gone. I can live single again," with a half
smile; "but just as you think, Margery."
Nothing more was said on the subject. Margery took up her sewing, and
John his paper. But he did not read very attentively that evening, but
often stopped and looked long and intently at Margery, who kept her
eyes steadily on the busy needle that was flying to and fro in her
fingers. It was a Saturday, and John tired with a week's hard labor.
So the fire was raked for the night, the old clock wound up, and the
little kitchen soon dark and silent.
Next morning Margery awoke bright and early. So early indeed, that
through the open window of the bedroom she could see the pink clouds
floating in the sky, and felt the cool wind that always goes before the
rising of the sun. The swallows under the roof were just waking up,
and beginning to twitter half-dreamily. With her hands folded under
her head, Margery lay musing for a long while. Somehow her whole life
passed before her on this still, holy Sunday morning. She remembered
when she used to play barefoot in the little brook or sit on warm
summer afternoons on the straight-rowed wooden benches of the village
school. How the years had sped by like a single day, and she was a
grown young girl. Then John came and courted her, and then--. The sun
had come up, and played in bright lights over the ceiling, while on the
floor quivered the shadows of the rose-leaves from outside before the
window. The church-bell in the village began to ring. Margery listened
to the sounds, as they came borne on the soft breeze, across the waving
corn-fields. She looked out at the blue sky and thought of heaven, and
the blessed angels singing and rejoicing there. She thought of her
child, and of John, and of herself. A mingled feeling of joy and pain,
of calm and unrest, crept into her heart. She felt the tears rising
to her eyes again, but she would not let them. She sprang up, dressed
hastily, and went softly downstairs, while John slept heavily on.
As Margery entered the kitchen, the cat got up from her rug, stretched
her legs and yawned, and then came forward to be petted. On the next
Sunday, Mary would probably be here to give pussy her milk, and stroke
her soft, glossy back. Margery threw open the door to let in the
beautiful fresh morning air. The dew lay sparkling on the grass and
flowers. Down there on the road was the spot where John and Mary had
parted last night. Margery turned away and shut the door again. Then
she bestirred herself to get breakfast.
When John came down to it, Margery thought his step sounded heavier
than she had ever heard it before.
"Will you go to church this morning, Margery?" he asked, when the
simple meal was over.
"No, John, I guess not."
"Well, Margery, I am going. I will come home as soon as service is
over; but I think it will do me good."
"John, will you promise me to"----
"What, Margery?"
"This afternoon, after I have got ready to go, will you come once more
with me to the--the grave?"
"Yes, Margery, yes."
She helped him on with his best coat, brought him the prayer-book, and
then watched him from the window as he walked down the road with slow
steps.
Margery wondered what could be the matter with herself that morning.
She felt so tired that her feet almost refused to carry her. A hundred
times in her simple household duties, she paused to take breath,
and sat down to rest so often, that John came home from church and
to dinner, almost before it was ready. He praised the cookery; but
the dishes were taken almost untouched off the table again, and when
everything was cleared away, Margery said,--
"I must go upstairs now, John, to get ready. I want to take some of my
clothes with me."
He sat on the doorstep, holding his pipe, which had gone out, between
his fingers, and only nodded his head, and said nothing. Margery went
up to the bedroom, and began to open closets and drawers, and pack
articles of clothing into a small trunk. At last she unlocked the great
old bureau, and took out a pile of tiny dresses and aprons, a tin cup,
and a few bright marbles, and stowed them carefully away in the trunk.
A pair of small, worn-out leather shoes, turned up at the toes, stood
in the drawer yet. Should she carry both these away, too? No, she
thought, as she brushed away the tears that had fallen upon it, one she
had better leave John. She put it resolutely back, locked the drawer,
and laid the key on the top of the bureau. Now there was nothing more
to be done. She looked around the room. Yes, that was to be readied up
a little, so that John might not miss her too much for the first day or
two. So she polished the chairs and the bureau, and carefully dusted
the mantlepiece, with the red and white china dog and the kneeling
china angel that stood there. Then she herself was to be dressed; she
had almost forgotten that altogether. She opened her trunk once more,
and took out the dress John loved best to see her in.
Several hours had slipped by while she was thus employed, and now the
village-clock struck five. She hastened down. John still sat on the
doorstep where she had left him.
"John, dear, I did not think it was so late. It is time to go to the
graveyard. Are you ready to come?"
He looked up as if he had been dreaming, but rose and said, "Yes,
Margery."
He shut the house-door, and they turned into a path to the rear of the
cottage. For some distance this road, too, was skirted on both sides
by fields of ripened corn. John passed his hand thoughtlessly over the
heavy ears, and now and then pulled one up, and swung it round in the
air. Neither of them spoke, and for a long while there was no other
sound but the rustle of their steps.
The path at length turned aside and led to a high plateau that
overlooked the valley, in which deep shadows were already beginning to
fall. Blue mists crept over the foot of the mountains, while their tops
were yet lit up by the sun. The smoke from the chimneys rose up into
the air, and the shouts of the village children, playing on the meadow,
faintly came up from below. There under that great oak, the only tree
for some distance around, John had first asked Margery to be his wife.
Involuntarily the steps of both faltered as they drew near the spot,
but neither stopped. Margery glanced up at John; she could not see his
face, for his head was turned, and he seemed to be attentively looking
at something down in the valley.
Another turn in the road, and the small cemetery, with the white stones
that gleamed between the dark cypress-trees, rose up before them. In
silence they found their way to the little grave. John seated himself,
without a word, on a mound opposite, Margery knelt down and pulled
some dried leaves off the rose-tree she had planted, and bound the ivy
further up on the white marble cross. She felt that John watched her,
but did not look up at him. Though she tried hard to keep them back,
the tears would fill her eyes again and again, so that she could hardly
see to pluck up the few weeds that had grown among the grass. When
that was completed, she covered her face with her hands and tried to
pray. She wanted to ask that John might be happy while she was away,
and that,--but her head swam round, and she found no words. She raised
her eyes, and glanced at John through her fingers. He sat with his back
toward her now, but she saw that his great, strong frame trembled with
half-suppressed sobs.
"O John!" she cried, bursting into tears. She only noticed yet that he
suddenly turned around, and then closed her eyes, as he clasped her in
his arms. For a time she heard nothing but the sound of her own low
weeping, and the throbbing of John's heart. Suddenly she looked up, and
said,--
"O John, dear, dear John, please, please forgive me!"
"Margery," he answered, in as firm a tone as he could command, "don't
talk so."
"Oh, but, John, I did not want to go away only because the house was so
lonely, but because,--because,"--
"Because what, Margery?" he asked, astonished.
"O John, because I--I thought you loved Mary better than me, because I
saw you together so many times in the last weeks; and she kissed your
hand last night."
John's clasp about Margery relaxed, and his arms sank down by his side.
His tears were dried now, and his earnest blue eyes fixed upon Margery
with a dumb, half-unconscious expression of surprise and pain. She
could not bear the look, and covered her face with her hands again.
"No, Margery," he said, slowly, "I only saw Mary because,"--
Margery raised her head.
"John, dear John, don't talk about it! I don't believe it any more! I
know I was a bad, foolish wife! Only love me again, and forgive me,
dear, dear John! Oh, I don't believe it any more!" and she took his
right hand and kissed it, as Mary had done.
"Wont you forgive me, John? I will never, never go away from you," she
pleaded, while the tears streamed down her face.
He took her in his arms once more, and kissed her lips.
The red evening sunlight had crept away from the little grave, and the
dusk was fast gathering about it. Margery bent down and kissed the
white marble cross; then they turned their steps homeward, Margery
holding John's hand like a child.
"I must unpack my clothes again to-night," she said, after a while. "I
have all the baby's little things in my trunk, but, John, I was going
to leave you one of the little shoes."
She felt her hand clasped closer in his.
"Margery," he said then, "I think I had better tell you about Mary."
"John, dear John, didn't I tell you I don't believe that any more," she
answered, with another pleading look.
"No Margery, it is not that, but I guess you might help us. You never
knew that Mary's father is getting very bad in the way of drinking.
Since his house was burnt down, and he lost his property, he has been
going on in that way. Mary takes it dreadful hard, and wont let the
news get about, if she can help it. She thinks so much of you, and she
says you used to like her father so well, that she wouldn't have you
know for almost any money. So I promised not to tell you. She has come
to me many and many a time, crying, and begging me to help her. She
works as hard as she can, but her father takes all she gets; so they
are very poor. When you saw us yesterday, I had given her money to pay
their rent. She wants to raise money enough to take him to the Asylum,
because there he may be cured. I promised her to get him some decent
clothes."
"O John, I will sew them. Poor Mary! and you needn't tell her who sewed
them."
"That's right, Margery!"
They had reached the house by this time, and John opened the door. The
kettle was singing over the hearth, and the bright tin pans against the
wall shone in the firelight. On the doorstep Margery turned around,
and, throwing her arms around John's neck, said softly,--
"John, I am glad I am going to stay."
When they had entered, John lit the candle, and while Margery was
getting supper, took up yesterday's unfinished paper. He read very
attentively this evening, but suddenly stopped, and Margery saw the
paper tremble in his hand. Then he rose, gave it to her, and said, in a
husky voice,--
"Read that, Margery."
Margery read. Then the paper dropped, and with a fresh burst of tears
she once more threw her arms about John's neck.
In one corner of the paper that lay neglected on the floor was the
poem:--
"As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
Oh, we fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.
"For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years;
There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave,
We kissed again with tears."
BROKEN IDOLS.
BROKEN IDOLS.
[Illustration]
Not long since, it was my misfortune to be inveigled into attending
one of the semi-periodical "Exhibitions" of the ---- Institute, a
seminary for young ladies. I say it was my misfortune, because, to
please my better half, I abandoned the joys of my fireside, my book,
and my slippers, to stand for two hours by an open window, with a cold
draft blowing on my back; hearing, now and then, a few words of the
sentimental and "goody" platitudes of which the young ladies' essays
were composed,--the reading of which was interspersed with pyrotechnic
performances on the piano-forte, which the programme was kind enough to
inform me were "The Soldiers' Chorus from Faust," "Duette from Norma,"
etc. I was fortunate in having a programme to enlighten me.
There was nothing remarkable about the "Exhibition," except that, in
the dozen essays which were read, all the verses of Longfellow's "Psalm
of Life" were quoted, and that through them all there ran a dismal
monotone of morbid sentiment. One young lady, who had a beautiful
healthy bloom on her cheeks and wore quite a quantity of comfortable
and elegant clothing, uttered a very touching wail over her buried
hopes, her vanished joys, and the mockery of this hollow-hearted
world. She stated that all that's brightest must fade,--that "this
world is all a fleeting show, for man's illusion given,"--that "our
hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating
funeral marches to the grave;" and much more of the same sort. She was
impressed with the fact that Time is an iconoclast,--which last word
seemed to strike her as one of the finest in the dictionary.
This is very true. Time does smash our idols continually; but should we
lament and sing dirges and make ourselves generally uncomfortable on
that account? Because the geese that we thought swans have turned out
to be only geese after all, should we go into mourning for our "buried
hopes," and "vanished joys"? That we outgrow our youthful fancies is no
more a cause for sentimental regret than that we outgrow our youthful
jackets. For myself, I can look upon the ashes of my early loves,--and
their name was legion,--with as few tears as I bestow upon the ragged
remnants of my early trousers.
A number of years ago my young heart's fresh affections were lavished
upon the bright-eyed girl whose father kept a little candy-shop and
bakery across the way, and who with her own fair hands often gave me
striped sticks of stomach-ache for my pennies, and sometimes, when I
was penniless, sweetened my lot with a few peppermint drops, telling
me to pay for them when I came into my fortune. Many a time have I
stood by the lighted window of the little shop, heedless of the bell
that summoned me to my nightly bread and milk, watching her trip about
among the jars of candy and barrels of nuts, tying up parcels and
making change with a grace that seemed unsurpassable. But there was a
red-haired, scorbutic youth who drove the baker's bread-cart, and also
drove me to distraction. He was always flinging my youth into my face
and asking if my mother was aware of my whereabouts. At last a grave
suspicion forced itself upon my mind that Lizzie looked upon him with
favor and made light of my juvenile demonstrations. Time proved that my
suspicion was well founded; for one day a carriage stopped in front of
the little shop, out of which sprang the scorbutic young man, clad in
unusually fine raiment, including a gorgeous yellow vest and immaculate
white gloves. He was followed by a solemn-looking person, who wore a
very black coat and a very white choker. They passed through the shop
and went up the back stairs. After a while they returned, and with
them Lizzie, all smiles and blushes and ribbons and a bewitching pink
bonnet. The carriage was driven away and my idol was smashed.
Straightway I builded me another, which was in turn broken, and
followed by another and another. Sometimes it was the dashing
highwayman, whose life and brilliant exploits I furtively made myself
acquainted with, out in the wood-house, and whose picture, in profuse
curls, enormous jack-boots, and immense expanse of coat-flap, graced
the yellow covers of the Claude Duval series of novels. Anon it was
the great Napoleon seated so proudly,--in cheap lithograph,--upon the
extreme hind-quarters of his fiery charger, and pointing with aspiring
hand toward the snowy Alps, that I set up and worshipped.
Nor was I free from relapses of the tender passion. About the time that
my first love, Lizzie, was putting the third of her red-haired progeny
into pantaloons, and torturing his fiery elf-locks into an unsightly
"roach," and when I was a freshman in college, I became convinced that
the light of my life shone from a certain window in Miss Peesley's
boarding-school; for behind that window a comely maiden, with golden
hair and eyes of heavenly blue, slept and studied and ate sweetmeats
and read Moore's melodies. My heart was hers entirely, as was also
my spare coin,--for we had specie in those days,--which I converted
into valentines and assorted candies and "The Language of Flowers,"
for her especial use and behoof. I worshipped her at church, as she
sat, with a bevy of other girls, aloft in the gallery, the entrance to
which was guarded by the ancient and incorruptible damsel who taught
algebra in Miss Peesley's academy, and who also marshalled the young
ladies to and from church, keeping them under her eye, and putting to
rout any audacious youth who endeavored to walk with one of them. It
was for her that I bought a flute, and with much difficulty so far
mastered it as to play "Sweet Home" and "What fairy-like music,"--in
performing which, standing in the snow under her window at midnight's
witching hour, I caught a terrible cold, besides being threatened
with arrest by a low-bred policeman for making an unseemly noise in
the night-time,--as if I were a calliope. It was to bow to her that I
neglected to split and carry in my Saturday's wood, and stood on the
street-corner all the afternoon, for which I was soundly rated at night
by my venerable father, who also improved the occasion by repeating his
regular lecture upon my inattentions to study and general neglect of
duty.
So great was my infatuation that I manifested an unheard-of anxiety
about the details of my dress. I even went so far as to attend the
Friday evening "Receptions" at the academy, where Miss Peesley
graciously gave the young gentlemen an opportunity to see and converse
with the young ladies, under her own supervision. It was a dismal
business,--sitting bolt upright in a straight-backed, hair-cushioned
chair, under the gaze of Miss P. and her staff, smiling foolishly at
some dreary, pointless sally of Miss Van Tuyl's, who taught rhetoric
and was remarkably sprightly for one of her years,--crossing and
uncrossing my legs uneasily, and endeavoring to persuade myself that I
was "enjoying the evening." Nevertheless, I made desperate attempts to
be happy even under these adverse circumstances.
And what was my reward?
There came to college a young man who was reputed to be a poet. He wore
his hair long and parted in the middle, was addicted to broad Byronic
collars, could take very pretty and pensive attitudes, and was an adept
in the art of leaning his head abstractedly upon his hand. He at once
became that terrible thing among the ladies, a lion. And he was a very
impudent lion. Regardless of my claims and feelings, he sent to her,
whom I had fondly called mine own, an acrostic valentine of his own
composition, taking care that she should know from whom it came. The
result was that I was--as we Western people would term it--"flopped!"
And so another idol was smashed.
Then came a reaction. I scorned the sex and sought balm for my wounded
feelings in the worst pages of Byron.
Having by this time attained the sophomoric dignity, I discovered
that the end and aim of existence was to be _fast_,--that the divine
significance of life consisted in drinking villanous whiskey "on the
sly," and proclaiming the fact by eating cardamom seeds; in stealing
gates and the clapper of the chapel bell; in devouring half-cooked
chickens, purloined from professional coops; in hazing freshmen; in
playing euchre for "ten cents a corner;" and in parading the streets at
midnight, singing "Landlord, fill the flowing bowl," and vociferously
urging some one to "rip and slap and set 'em up ag'in, all on a
summer's day." I smoked vile Scarfalatti tobacco in a huge Dutch pipe,
wore a blue coat with brass buttons, a shocking hat, and my trousers
tucked into my boots,--which after my great disappointment befell
me I ceased to black with any degree of regularity,--and regulated
my language according to a certain slangy work called "Yale College
Scrapes."
I am inclined to look upon these youthful pranks not as unpardonable
sins, though I freely admit their utter folly, but as the vagaries of
immature _genius_,--if I may say so,--scorning to walk decorously,
because other people do, struggling to throw off the fetters of
conventionality, burning to distinguish itself in some new and
original way, striking out from the beaten paths,--to repent of it
afterward. For it does not take many years to teach one that the
beaten paths are the safest; and I have often wished that I had had a
tithe of the application and assiduity of "Old Sobriety," as we rapid
youngsters called the Nestor of the class, who plodded on from morn
till dewy eve and far into the night, and quietly carried off the
honors from the brilliant geniuses, who wore flash neckties and shone
at free-and-easys. But what thoughtless college-boy does not prefer
worshipping at the shrine of the fast goddess to treading the straight
and safe paths of propriety? It takes time and one or two private
interviews with a committee of the Faculty to rid him of his delusion.
I have been making these confessions to show that I, too, as well as
the handsome and healthy young lady whose essay furnishes my text,
have had some joys that are vanished and some hopes that are buried.
But I do not therefore find that this world is a dark and dreary
desert. I do not rail at life as a hollow mockery, nor long to lay my
weary head upon the lap of earth. On the contrary, the longer I live
in this world, the better I like it. It is a jolly old world, after
all; and, though Time is an iconoclast and does smash our idols with a
ruthless hand, it is only to purify our vision; and, as the fragments
tumble and the dust settles, we see the true, the beautiful, and the
joyous in life more clearly. I know that life has its disappointments
and crosses; but I think that it is too short for sentimental
lamentation over them. In homely phrase, "There is no use in crying
over spilt milk." If Dame Fortune frowns, laugh her in the face, and,
with a light heart and brave spirit, woo her again, and you will surely
win her smile. I am as fully impressed as any one with the fact that
this world is not our permanent abiding-place; but that is no reason
why we should underrate, abuse, and malign it. There is such a thing
as being too other-worldly. The grand truths and beautiful teachings
of God's gospel do not conflict with the grandeur, the beauty, and the
mystery of God's handiwork, the world; and we can no more afford to
despise and dispense with the one than with the other. And it seems to
me that we cannot better prepare for enjoying the life hereafter than
by a healthy, hearty, rational enjoyment of the one that is here.
Do not, then, O youth, sit down and grow sentimental over your
fancied griefs. Do not waste your time in shedding weak tears over
the fragments of your broken idols. Kick the rubbish aside, and go on
your way, with head erect and heart open to the sweet influences of
this bright and beautiful world, and you cannot fail to find it not a
"Piljin's Projiss of a Wale," but