What shall a poor girl say or do, when a strong man falters in his
speech before her, and can do nothing better than hold out his hand to
finish his broken sentence?
The poor girl said nothing, but quietly laid her ungloved hand in
his,--the little soft white hand which had ministered so tenderly and
suffered so patiently.
The blood came back to the young man's cheeks, as he lifted it to his
lips, even as they walked there in the street, touched it gently with
them, and said, “It is mine!”
Iris did not contradict him.
The seasons pass by so rapidly, that I am startled to think how much
has happened since these events I was describing. Those two young
people would insist on having their own way about their own affairs,
notwithstanding the good lady, so justly called the Model, insisted that
the age of twenty-five years was as early as any discreet young lady
should think of incurring the responsibilities, etc., etc. Long
before Iris had reached that age, she was the wife of a young Maryland
engineer, directing some of the vast constructions of his native
State,--where he was growing rich fast enough to be able to decline that
famous Russian offer which would have made him a kind of nabob in a
few years. Iris does not write verse often, nowadays, but she sometimes
draws. The last sketch of hers I have seen in my Southern visits was of
two children, a boy and girl, the youngest holding a silver goblet,
like the one she held that evening when I--I was so struck with her
statue-like beauty. If in the later, summer months you find the grass
marked with footsteps around that grave on Copp's Hill I told you of,
and flowers scattered over it, you may be sure that Iris is here on her
annual visit to the home of her childhood and that excellent lady whose
only fault was, that Nature had written out her list of virtues an ruled
paper, and forgotten to rub out the lines.
One thing more I must mention. Being on the Common, last Sunday, I
was attracted by the cheerful spectacle of a well-dressed and somewhat
youthful papa wheeling a very elegant little carriage containing a stout
baby. A buxom young lady watched them from one of the stone seats,
with an interest which could be nothing less than maternal. I at once
recognized my old friend, the young fellow whom we called John. He was
delighted to see me, introduced me to “Madam,” and would have the lusty
infant out of the carriage, and hold him up for me to look at.
Now, then,--he said to the two-year-old,--show the gentleman how you hit
from the shoulder. Whereupon the little imp pushed his fat fist straight
into my eye, to his father's intense satisfaction.
Fust-rate little chap,--said the papa.--Chip of the old block. Regl'r
little Johnny, you know.
I was so much pleased to find the young fellow settled in life, and
pushing about one of “them little articles” he had seemed to want so
much, that I took my “punishment” at the hands of the infant pugilist
with great equanimity.--And how is the old boarding-house?--I asked.
A 1,--he answered.--Painted and papered as good as new. Gabs in all the
rooms up to the skyparlors. Old woman's layin' up money, they say.
Means to send Ben Franklin to college. Just then the first bell rang for
church, and my friend, who, I understand, has become a most exemplary
member of society, said he must be off to get ready for meetin', and
told the young one to “shake dada,” which he did with his closed fist,
in a somewhat menacing manner. And so the young man John, as we used to
call him, took the pole of the miniature carriage, and pushed the small
pugilist before him homewards, followed, in a somewhat leisurely way, by
his pleasant-looking lady-companion, and I sent a sigh and a smile after
him.
That evening, as soon as it was dark, I could not help going round by
the old boarding-house. The “gahs” was lighted, but the curtains, or
more properly, the painted shades; were not down. And so I stood there
and looked in along the table where the boarders sat at the evening
meal,--our old breakfast-table, which some of us feel as if we knew so
well. There were new faces at it, but also old and familiar ones.--The
landlady, in a wonderfully smart cap, looking young, comparatively
speaking, and as if half the wrinkles had been ironed out of her
forehead.--Her daughter, in rather dressy half-mourning, with a vast
brooch of jet, got up, apparently, to match the gentleman next her, who
was in black costume and sandy hair,--the last rising straight from
his forehead, like the marble flame one sometimes sees at the top of a
funeral urn.--The Poor Relation, not in absolute black, but in a stuff
with specks of white; as much as to say, that, if there were any more
Hirams left to sigh for her, there were pin-holes in the night of her
despair, through which a ray of hope might find its way to an adorer.
--Master Benjamin Franklin, grown taller of late, was in the act of
splitting his face open with a wedge of pie, so that his features were
seen to disadvantage for the moment.--The good old gentleman was sitting
still and thoughtful. All at once he turned his face toward the window
where I stood, and, just as if he had seen me, smiled his benignant
smile. It was a recollection of some past pleasant moment; but it fell
upon me like the blessing of a father.
I kissed my hand to them all, unseen as I stood in the outer darkness;
and as I turned and went my way, the table and all around it faded into
the realm of twilight shadows and of midnight dreams.
--------------
And so my year's record is finished. The Professor has talked less than
his predecessor, but he has heard and seen more. Thanks to all those
friends who from time to time have sent their messages of kindly
recognition and fellow-feeling! Peace to all such as may have been
vexed in spirit by any utterance these pages have repeated! They will,
doubtless, forget for the moment the difference in the hues of truth we
look at through our human prisms, and join in singing (inwardly) this
hymn to the Source of the light we all need to lead us, and the warmth
which alone can make us all brothers.