winking hard to make them swallow the tears which sought to hide from
him a spectacle that was calling aloud to be seen. For lo! the
street-end was filled with the glory of a magnificent rainbow. All
across its opening stretched and stood the wide arch of a wonderful
rainbow. Hector could not see the sun; he saw only what it was making;
and the old story came back to him, how the men of ancient time took the
heavenly bow for a promise that there should no more be such a flood as
again to destroy the world. And therefore even now the poets called the
rainbow the bow of hope.
Nor, even in these days of question and unbelief, is it matter of wonder
that, at sight of the harmony of blended and mingling, yet always
individual, and never confused colors, and notwithstanding his knowledge
of optics, and of how the supreme unity of the light was secerned into
its decreed chord, the imaginative faith of the troubled poet should so
work in him as to lift his head for a moment above the waters of that
other flood that threatened to overwhelm his microcosm, and the bow
should seem to him a new promise, given to him then and individually, of
the faithfulness of an unseen Power of whom he had been assured, by one
whom he dared not doubt, that He numbered the very hairs of his head.
Once more his spirit rose upon the wave of a hope which he could neither
logically justify nor dare to refuse; for hope is hope whencesoever it
spring, and needs no justification of its self-existence or of its
sudden marvelous birth. The very hope was in itself enough for itself.
And now he was near his home; his Annie was waiting for him; and in
another instant his misery would be shared and comforted by her! He was
walking toward the wonder-sign in the heavens. But even as he walked
with it full in view, he saw it gradually fade and dissolve into the
sky, until not a thread of its loveliness remained to show where it had
spanned the infinite with its promise of good. And yet, was not the sky
itself a better thing, and the promise of a yet greater good? He must
walk onward yet, in tireless hope! And the resolve itself endured--or
fading, revived, and came again, and ever yet again.
For ere he had passed the few yards that lay between him and Annie yet
another wonder befell: as if the rainbow had condensed, and taken shape
as it melted away, there on the pathway, in the thickening twilight of
the swift-descending November night, stood a creature, surely not of the
night, but rather of the early morn, a lovely little child--whether
wandered from the open door of some neighboring house, or left by the
vanished rainbow, how was he to tell? Endeavoring afterward to recall
every point of her appearance, he could remember nothing of her feet, or
even of the frock she wore. Only her face remained to him, with its
cerulean eyes--the eyes of Annie, looking up from under the cloud of her
dark hair, which also was Annie’s. She looked then as she stood, in his
memory of her, as if she were saying, “I trust in you; will you not
trust in Him who made the rainbow?” For a moment he seemed to stand
regarding her, but even while he looked he must have forgotten that she
was there before him, for when again he knew that he saw her, though he
did not seem ever to have looked away from her, she had changed in the
gathering darkness to the phantasm of a daisy, which still gazed up in
his face trustingly, and, indeed, went with him to his own door, seeming
all the time to say, “It was no child; it was me you saw, and nothing
but me; only I saw the sun--I mean, the man that was making the
rainbow.” And never more could he in his mind separate the child, whom I
cannot but think he had verily seen, from the daisy which certainly he
had not seen, except in the atmosphere of his troubled and confused
soul.
It may help my reader to understand its confusion if I recall to him the
fact that Hector had that day eaten nothing. Nor must my wife reader
think hardly of Annie for having let him leave the house without any
food, for he had stolen softly away, and closed the door as softly
behind him, thinking how merrily they would eat together when he came
back with his good news. And now he was bringing nothing to her but the
story of a poor woman and her child who had warmed him, and of an
omnibus-conductor who had trusted him for his fare, and of a rainbow and
a child and a daisy.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty dear!” cried Annie, as she threw herself into
his arms, rejoicing. But at sight of his worn and pallid face the smile
faded from hers, and she thought, “What can have befallen him?”
His lip quivered, and, seeking with a watery smile to reassure her, he
gave way and burst into tears. Unmanly of him, no doubt, but what is a
man to do when he cannot help it? And where is a man to weep if not on
his wife’s bosom? Call this behavior un-English, if you will; for,
indeed, Hector was in many ways other than English, and, I protest,
English ways are not all human. But I will not allow that it manifested
any weakness, or necessarily involved shame to him; the best of men, and
the strongest--yea, the one Man whose soul harbored not an atom of
self-pity--upon one occasion wept, I think because he could not persuade
the women whom he loved and would fain console to take comfort in his
Father. Annie, for one reverent moment, turned her head aside, then
threw her arms about him, and hid her glowing face in his bosom.
“There’s only me in the house, dear,” she said, and led the way to their
room.
When they reached it, she closed the door, and turned to him.
“So they won’t take your story?” she said, assuming the fact, with a
sad, sunny smile.
“They refused it absolutely.”
“Well, never mind! I shall go out charing to-morrow. You have no notion
how strong I am. It is well for you I have never wanted to beat you.
Seriously, I believe I am much stronger than you have the least notion
of. There! Feel that arm--I should let you feel it another way, only I
am afraid of hurting you.”
She had turned up the sleeve of her dress, and uncovered a grandly
developed arm, white as milk, and blossoming in a large, splendidly
formed hand. Then playfully, but oh! so tenderly, with the under and
softest part of her arm she fondled his face, rubbing it over first one,
then the other cheek, and ended with both arms round his neck, her hands
folding his head to her bosom.
“Wife! wife!” faltered Hector, with difficulty controlling himself; “my
strong, beautiful wife! To think of your marrying me for this!”
“Hector,” answered Annie, drawing herself back with dignity, “do you
dare to pity me? That would be to insult me! As if I was not fit to be
your wife when doing _everything_ for my mother! There are
thousands of Scotch girls that would only be proud to take my place,
poor as you are--and you couldn’t be much poorer--and serve you, without
being your wife, as I have the honor and pride to be! But, my blessed
man, I do believe you have eaten nothing to-day; and here am I fancying
myself your wife, and letting you stand there empty, instead of
bestirring myself to get you some supper! What a shame! Why, you are
actually dying with hunger!” she cried, searching his face with pitiful
eyes.
“On the contrary, I am not in the least hungry,” protested Hector.
“Then you must be hungry at once, sir. I will go and bring you something
the very sight of which will make you hungry.”
“But you have no money, Annie; and, not being able to pay, we must go
without. Come, we will go to bed.”
“Yes, I am ready; I had a good breakfast. But you have had nothing all
day. And for money, do you know Miss Hamper, the dressmaker, actually
offered to lend me a shilling, and I took it. Here it is. You see, I was
so sure you would bring money home that I thought we _might_ run that
much farther into debt. So I got you two fresh eggs and such a lovely
little white loaf. Besides, I have just thought of something else we
could get a little money for--that dainty chemise my mother made for me
with her own hands when we were going to be married. I will take it to
the pawnbroker to-morrow.”
“I was never in a pawnshop, Annie. I don’t think I should know how to
set about it.”
“_You!_” cried Annie, with a touch of scorn. “Do you think I would
trust a man with it? No; that’s a woman’s work. Why, you would let the
fellow offer you half it was worth--and you would take it too. I shall
show it to Mrs. Whitmore: _she_ will know what I ought to get for
it. She’s had to do the thing herself--too often, poor thing!”
“It would be like tearing my heart out.”
“What! to part with my pretty chemise. Hector, dear, you must not be
foolish! What does it matter, so long as we are not cheating anybody?
The pawnshop is a most honorable and useful institution. No one is the
worse for it, and many a one the better. Even the tradespeople will be a
trifle the better. I shall be quite proud to know that I have a
pawn-ticket in my pocket to fall back upon. Oh, there’s that old silk
dress your mother sent me--I do believe that would bring more. It is in
good condition, and looks quite respectable. If Eve had got into a
scrape like ours, she would have been helpless, poor thing, not having
anything _to put away_--that is the right word, I believe. There is
really nothing disgraceful about it. Come now, dear, and eat your
eggs--I’m afraid you must do without butter. I always preferred a piece
of dry bread with an egg--you get the true taste of the egg so much
better. One day or another we must part with everything. It is sure to
come. Sooner or later, what does that matter? ‘The readiness is all,’ as
Hamlet says. Death, or the pawnshop, signifies nothing. ‘Since no man
has aught of what he leaves, what is it to leave betimes?’ We do but
forestall the grave for one brief hour with the pawnshop.”
“You deserve to have married Epictetus, Annie, you brave woman, instead
of Xantippe!”
“I prefer you, Hector.”
“But what might you have said if he had asked you, and you had heard me
bemoaning the pawnshop?”
“Ah, then, indeed! But, in the meantime, we will go to bed and wait
there for to-morrow. Is it not a lovely thing to know that God is
thinking about you? He will bring us to _our desired haven_,
Hector, dearest!”
So in their sadness they laid them down. Annie opened her arms and took
Hector to her bosom. There he sighed himself to sleep; and God put His
arms about them both, and kept them asleep until the morning.
And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.
Annie was the first to spring up and begin to dress herself, pondering
in her mind as she did so whether to go first to the pawnbroker’s or to
the baker, to ask him to recommend her as a charwoman. She would tell
him just the truth--that she must in future work for her daily bread.
Then Hector rose and dressed himself.
“Oh, Annie!” he said, as he did so, “is it gone, that awful misery of
last night in the omnibus? It seemed, as I jolted along, as if God had
forgotten one of the creatures he had made, and that one was me; or,
worse, that he thought of me, and would not move to help me! And why do
I feel now as if He had help for me somewhere near waiting for me? I
think I will go and see a man who lives somewhere close by, and find out
if he is the same I used to know at St. Andrews; if he be the same, he
may know of something I could try for.”
“Do,” replied Annie. “I will go with you, and on the way call at the
grocer’s--I think he will be the best to ask if he knows of any family
that wants a charwoman or could give me any sort of work. There’s more
than one kind of thing I could turn my hand to--needle-work, for
instance. I could make a child’s frock as well, I believe, as a
second-rate dressmaker. Can you tell me who was the first tailor,
Hector? It was God himself. He made coats of skins for Adam and his
wife.”
“Quite right, dear. You may well try your hand--as I know you have done
many a time already. And, if I can get hold of ever so young a pupil, I
shall be glad even to teach him his letters. We must try anything and
everything. We are long past being fastidious, I hope.”
He turned and went on with his toilet.
“Oh, Hector,” said Annie suddenly, and walked to the mantelpiece, “I am
so sorry! Here is a letter that came for you yesterday. I did not care
to open it, though you have often told me to open any letters I pleased.
The fact is, I forgot all about it, I believe, because I was so unhappy
at your going away without breakfast. Or perhaps it was that I was
frightened at its black border. I really can’t tell now why I did not
open it.”
With little interest and less hope, Hector took the
letter,--black-bordered and black-sealed,--opened it, and glanced
carelessly at the signature, while Annie stood looking at him, in the
hope merely that he would find in it no fresh trouble--some forgotten
bill perhaps!
She saw his face change, and his eyes grow fixed. A moment more and the
letter dropped in the fender. He stood an instant, then fell on his
knees, and threw up his hands.
“What is it, darling?” she cried, beginning to tremble.
“Only five hundred pounds!” he answered, and burst into an hysterical
laugh.
“Impossible!” cried Annie.
“Who _can_ have played us such a cruel trick?” said Hector feebly.
“It’s no trick, Hector!” exclaimed Annie. “There’s nobody would have the
heart to do it. Let _me_ see the letter.”
She almost caught it from his hands as he picked it from the fender, and
looked at the signature.
“Hale & Hale?” she read. “I never heard of them!”
“No, nor anyone else, I dare say,” answered Hector.
“Let us see the address at the top,” said Annie.
“There it is--Philpot Lane.”
“Where is that? I don’t believe there is such a place!”
“Oh, yes, there is; I’ve seen it--somewhere in the City, I believe. But
let us read the letter. I saw only the figures. I confess I was foolish
enough at first to fancy somebody had sent us five hundred pounds!”
“And why not?” cried Annie. “I am sure there’s no one more in want of
it.”
“That’s just why not,” answered Hector. “Did you ever know a rich man
leave his money to a poor relation? Oh, I hope it does not mean that my
father is gone. He may have left us a trifle. Only he could not have had
so much to leave to anybody. I know he loved you, Annie.”
In the meantime Annie had been doing the one sensible thing--reading the
letter, and now she stood pondering it.
“I have it, Hector. He always uses good people to do his kindnesses.
Don’t you remember me telling you about the little old lady in Graham’s
shop the time your book came out?”
“Yes, Annie; I wasn’t likely to forget that; it was my love for you that
made me able to write the poem. Ah, but how soon was the twenty pounds I
got for it spent, though I thought it riches then!”
“So it was--and so it is!” cried Annie, half laughing, but crying
outright. “It’s just that same little old lady. She was so delighted
with the book, and with you for writing it, that she put you down at
once in her will for five hundred pounds, believing it would help people
to trust in God.”
“And here was I distrusting so much that I was nearly ready to kill
myself. Only I thought it would be such a terrible shock to you, my
precious! It would have been to tell God to his face that I knew he
would not help me. I am sure now that he is never forgetting, though he
seems to have forgotten. There was that letter lying in the dark through
all the hours of the long night, while we slept in the weariness of
sorrow and fear, not knowing what the light was bringing us. God is
good!”
“Let us go and see these people and make sure,” said Annie. “‘Hale and
Hearty,’ do they call themselves? But I’m going with you myself this
time! I’m not going to have such another day as I had yesterday--waiting
for you till the sun was down, and all was dark, you bad man!--and
fancying all manner of terrible things! I wonder--I wonder, if--”
“Well, what do you wonder, Annie?”
“Only whether, if now we were to find out it was indeed all a mistake, I
should yet be able to hope on through all the rest. I doubt it; I doubt
it! Oh, Hector, you have taught me everything!”
“More, it seems, than I have myself learned. Your mother had already
taught you far more than ever I had to give you!”
“But it is much too early yet, I fear, to call in the City,” said Annie.
“Don’t you think we should have time first to find out whether the
gentleman we were thinking of inquiring after to-day be your old college
friend or not? And I will call at the grocer’s, and tell him we hope to
settle his bill in a few days. Then you can come to me, and I will go to
you, and we shall meet somewhere between.”
They did as Annie proposed; and before they met, Hector had found his
friend, and been heartily received both by him and by his young wife.
When at length they reached Philpot Lane, and were seated in an outer
room waiting for admission, Annie said: “Surely, if rich people knew how
some they do not know need their help, they would be a little more eager
to feather their wings ere they fly aloft by making friends with the
Mammon of unrighteousness. Don’t you think it may be sometimes that they
are afraid of doing harm with their money?”
“I’m afraid it is more that they never think what our Lord meant when he
said the words. But oh, Annie! is it a bad sign of me that the very
possibility of this money could make me so happy?”
They were admitted at length, and kindly received by a gray-haired old
man, who warned them not to fancy so much money would last them very
long.
“Indeed, sir,” answered Annie, “the best thing we expect from it is that
it will put my husband in good heart to begin another book.”
“Oh! your husband writes books, does he? Then I begin to understand my
late client’s will. It is just like her,” said the old gentleman. “Had
you known her long?”
“I never once saw her,” said Hector.
“But I did,” said Annie, “and I heard her say how delighted she was with
his first book. Please, sir,” she added, “will it be long before you can
let us have the money?”
“You shall have it by-and-by,” answered the lawyer; “all in good time.”
And now first they learned that not a penny of the money would they
receive before the end of a twelvemonth.
“Well, that will give us plenty of time to die first,” thought Hector,
“which I am sure the kind lady did not intend when she left us the
money.”
Another thing they learned was that, even then, they would not receive
the whole of the money left them, for seeing they could claim no
relation to the legator, ten per cent must be deducted from their
legacy. If they came to him in a year from the date of her death, he
told them he would have much pleasure in handing them the sum of four
hundred and fifty pounds.
So they left the office--not very exultant, for they were both rather
hungry, and had to go at once in search of work--with but a poor chance
of borrowing upon it.
Nevertheless, Hector broke the silence by saying:
“I declare, Annie, I feel so light and free already that I could invent
anything, even a fairy tale, and I feel as if it would be a lovely one.
I hope you have a penny left to buy a new bottle of ink. The ink at home
is so thick it takes three strokes to one mark.”
“Yes, dear, I have a penny; I have two, indeed--just twopence left. We
shall buy a bottle of ink with one, and--shall it be a bun with the
other? I think one penny bun will divide better than two halfpenny
ones.”
“Very well. Only, mind, _I’m_ to divide it. But, do you know, I’ve
been thinking,” said Hector, “whether we might not take a holiday on the
strength of our expectations, for we shall have so long to wait for the
money that I think we may truly say we have _great_ expectations.”
“I think we should do better,” answered Annie, “to go back to your old
friend, Mr. Gillespie, and tell him of our good-fortune, and see whether
he can suggest anything for us to do in the meantime.”
Hector agreed, and together they sought the terrace where Mr. and Mrs.
Gillespie lived, who were much interested in their story; and then first
they learned that the lady was at least well enough off to be able to
help them, and, when they left, she would have Annie take with her a
dozen of her handkerchiefs, to embroider with her initials and crest;
but Annie begged to be allowed to take only one, that Mrs. Gillespie
might first see how she liked her work.
“For, then, you see,” she said to her husband, as they went home, “I
shall be able to take it back to her this very evening and ask her for
the half-crown she offered me for doing it, which I should not have had
the face to do with eleven more of them still in my possession. I have
no doubt of her being satisfied with my work; and in a week I shall have
finished the half of them, and we shall be getting on swimmingly.”
Throughout the winter Hector wrote steadily every night, and every night
Annie sat by his side and embroidered--though her embroidery was not
_all_ for other people. Many a time in after years did their
thoughts go back to that period as the type of the happy life they were
having together.
The next time Hector went to see Mr. Gillespie, that gentleman suggested
that he should give a course of lectures to ladies upon English Poetry,
beginning with the Anglo-Saxon poets, of whom Gillespie said he knew
nothing, but would be glad to learn a great deal. He knew also, he said,
some ladies in the neighborhood willing to pay a guinea each for a
course of, say, half-a-dozen such lectures. They would not cost Hector
much time to prepare, and would at once bring in a little money.
Coleridge himself, he suggested, had done that kind of thing.
“Yes,” said Hector, “but he was Coleridge. I have nothing to say worth
saying.”
“Leave your hearers to judge of that,” returned Gillespie. “Do your
best, and take your chance. I promise you two pupils at least not
over-critical--my wife and myself. It is amazing how little those even
who imagine they love it know about English poetry.”
“But where should I find a room?” Hector still objected.
“Would not this drawing room do?” asked his friend.
“Splendidly!” answered Hector. “But what will Mrs. Gillespie say to it?”
“She and I are generally of one mind--about people, at least.”
“Then I will go home at once and set about finding what to say.”
“And I will go out at once and begin hunting you up an audience.”
Gillespie succeeded even better than he had anticipated; and there was
at the first lecture a very fair gathering indeed. When it was over, the
one that knew most of the subject was the young lecturer’s wife. The
first course was followed by two more, the third at the request of
almost all his hearers. And the result was that, before the legacy fell
due, Annie had paid all their debts and had not contracted a single new
one.
But when the happy day dawned Annie was not able to go with her husband
to receive the money; neither did Hector wish that she had been able,
for he was glad to go alone. By her side lay a lovely woman-child
peacefully asleep. Hector declared her the very image of the child the
rainbow left behind as it vanished.
One day, when the mother was a little stronger, she called Hector to her
bedside, and playfully claimed the right to be the child’s godmother,
and to give it her name.
“And who else can have so good a right?” answered Hector. Yet he
wondered just a little that Annie should want the child named after
herself, and not after her mother.
But when the time for the child’s baptism came, Annie, who would hold
the little one herself, whispered in the ear of the clergyman:
“The child’s name is Iris.”
I have told my little story. But perhaps my readers will have patience
with me while I add just one little inch to the tail of the mouse my
mountain has borne.
Hector’s next book, although never so popular as in any outward sense to
be called a success, yet was not quite a failure even in regard to the
money it brought him, and even at the present day has not ceased to
bring in something. Doubtless it has faults not a few, but, happily, the
man who knows them best is he who wrote it, and he has never had to
repent that he did write it. And now he has an audience on which he can
depend to welcome whatever he writes. That he has enemies as well goes
without saying, but they are rather scorners than revilers, and they
have not yet caused him to retaliate once by criticising any work of
theirs. Neither, I believe, has he ever failed to recognize what of
genuine and good work most of them have produced. One of the best
results to himself of his constant endeavor to avoid jealousy is that he
is still able to write verse, and continues to take more pleasure in it
than in telling his tales. And still his own test of the success of any
of his books is the degree to which he enjoyed it himself while writing
it.