LOVES SACRIFICE.
When I was a young man, I was an enthusiast. My mother had died when I
was a child. My father was a clergyman, and wished to educate me for
the church. But my heart was not in my studies, and I did not satisfy
his expectations. I was too fond of poetry and plays, my tutors told
him; sterner studies were distasteful to me, and they met with nothing
but disappointment from so unwilling a pupil. I was also difficult to
control; would indeed submit to no control. On several occasions when
a company of players came to the place in which I was being educated,
I had stolen away to the theatre, remaining there until nearly
midnight. My tutors spoke the truth. From the first night that I
stepped inside the walls of a theatre and saw a tragedy, my fate was
fixed. I was fascinated, entranced. I had never conceived any thing so
grand, so noble, so heroic. Mine was a pure passion; glitter possibly
had its effect upon my mind, but no base ingredient was mixed with my
determination to become an actor. What nobler calling could there be
than that which clothed the noblest of all the arts with living fire,
which made dead heroes speak and move and live again? My father
received the report with displeasure. He looked upon a theatre as the
abode of all the vices. He spoke to me and expostulated with me, and I
argued with him until I angered him. Then he took me from school, and
kept me at home, so that he might wean me from my wicked notions. I
had not been home a month before a company of players paid our town a
visit. I was aglow with excitement. My father warned me not to go; I
told him frankly that I would. He locked me in my bedroom; and I made
a rope of the sheets, and let myself out of the window. I came home
late, and my father opened the door for me. He was so strict a
disciplinarian, that my disobedience was a crime in his eyes. He told
me so sternly, and told me also that unless I complied with the rules
of his house, and with his commands as a father, I must find a home
elsewhere. He had other children, and he declared that I should not
contaminate them by my example. When I ventured to expostulate with
him, he stopped me peremptorily. There was no sign of tenderness in
his manner. He was harsh and hard. He forgot that I inherited some
share of his own determination, and that I was as likely to be
immovable in my ideas as he was in his. I felt that I could have
answered him by arguments as forcible as his, and, with the not
uncommon egotism of youth, I believed that I could have convinced him.
But he would not listen to me, and I was compelled to sit silent and
inwardly rebellious while he laid down the hard rules by which my life
was to be guided. The glittering splendor of the play I had witnessed
that night was vivid to my mind while his cold words fell upon my
ears. The tragedian upon whose musical impassioned utterances I had
hung entranced, was one of the greatest that ever trod the stage; the
play I had seen was one of the grandest of England's grandest poet.
What! was it a crime to come within the influence of such a teacher? I
could not believe it; I would not believe it. My father said my
inclinations were sinful, impious, misbegotten, and preached to me
sternly, uncompromisingly, until my heart--beating with indignation at
his injustice--was as hard to him as his was to me. Then he left the
room with a cold goodnight, and I went to bed. But before I went to
sleep, I took from my box the volume of Shakspeare containing the play
that I had seen, and as I read the noble verse, the men and women who
took part therein came and inspired me with the nobility of their
speech.
On the ensuing Sabbath my father preached against play-houses and
players. It is not necessary for me here to dilate upon his arguments;
they were the common arguments generally used against actors and their
abominations. Players were creatures of the devil, working in his
service for the damnation of souls. There was no heaven for them; by
their lives they earned damnation, and they received their wages in
another life. It was a strong sermon--"a beautiful sermon," as I heard
many men and women say to each other as they walked from the place of
worship; but it filled me with indignation. It was a challenge thrown
out to me, and I accepted it. I do not attempt to justify what I did;
but it seemed to me as if I should be false to myself if I did not do
it. On the following evening I went to the theatre early, and secured
a seat in the most conspicuous position, and sitting there the whole
night through, I applauded with more than my usual enthusiasm, and
even--perhaps I should be ashamed to say it--with purposed
demonstrativeness. It was like giving the lie to my father's teaching;
but I did not think of it then in that light. I was bound in honor to
a certain course of action, and I pursued it. When the play was over,
I walked about the town for an hour, filled with fervent passionate
admiration for what I had witnessed. It was past midnight when I
knocked at my father's door. No answer came. I knocked again. Still no
answer. I was standing in perplexity as to what I should do, when a
piece of paper fluttered on to the pavement from a window above. I
picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to me. It was in my
father's handwriting, and it told me in a few simple words that, as I
had chosen to commit a sinful outrage upon his cloth, and upon his
sermon of the previous day, he disowned me as a son and cast me off. A
postscript was added, to the effect that, upon my calling at or
sending to a certain place every week, I could receive a small sum of
money sufficient to keep me from want, but that if I adopted the stage
as a calling, the money would be withheld. In the event of my adopting
the stage, my father asked me as a favor to change my name. I never
received a farthing of the money; I would have died rather than have
taken it. I started that night from my native town, and I have never
seen one of my family since.
I need not dwell upon the details of the next few years. The
recollection is too painful to me. When I walked away from my father's
house, I solemnly resolved never to set foot in it again; I renounced
all claims of kindred, and said to myself proudly and confidently, "I
am alone in the world, without friends, without family. I am free to
adopt what course in life I think best. I will show my father, by my
career, that I am right, and he is wrong." I changed my name to the
name by which you know me. Speaking to you as I am speaking now, with
the solemn darkness around us, with something like a sense of death
upon me, I cannot hide from you any thing that comes to my
recollection. The simple reason for my changing my name was, that it
laid my father under an obligation to me. The motive was unworthy; but
it is hard to reconcile the lofty aspirations and the despicable
sentiment that in the same moment may animate a single mind. Well, I
marched into the world friendless and unknown, filled with an arrogant
courage, almost with defiance. I had a watch and a little money; I
sold my watch to increase my wealth, and before I had spent my last
shilling, I gained admission to a company of players, and commenced
life as an actor. I had seen these actors on the stage, and had been
inspired by them; but my amazement was great when their private lives
were open to me. The men and women who had inspired me were poor
struggling creatures, living almost begging lives, and suffering
almost incredible hardships. The salaries they were supposed to
receive were barely sufficient to pay for food and lodging; but the
money that was taken at the doors of the theatre was often of such
trifling amount, that at the end of the week the players were
compelled to be content with half, ay, with a fourth the sum due to
them. They all shared alike; there was none among them who took the
lion's share while the others starved. The leading tragedian received
a guinea a week, and was thankful when he got it. I have seen him play
Macbeth, knowing that he had not tasted food since breakfast; and have
seen him come off the stage at the end of the play and faint, not from
enthusiasm and excitement, but from sheer hunger. From this you can
form some idea of my sufferings; but I never wavered. I was
indomitable in my resolve. Disenchanted as I was to some extent, I saw
fame and glory before me, and I followed the beckoning shadows that
lured me on. And then I saw so much to admire in the lives of my
poor companions--so much self-sacrifice, so much devotion, so much
virtue--that I was proud to suffer with them. "Children of the devil,"
I had heard my father call them. A strong resentment against him
possessed me when I became a witness of their privations patiently
borne, of their self-sacrifices cheerfully made. All this
while--though I endured hunger and every species of worldly misery;
though I had to walk, many and many a time, forty, fifty, and sixty
miles, through wet and mud, in boots and shoes that scarcely held
together; though I often slept in the open air, by the side of
hay-stacks and under hedges--all this while I was advancing in my
profession, and enthusiastically believed that the day would come when
I should be famous and prosperous. So I grew to be a man, more firmly
hoping, more firmly believing. I was what is called leading man; I was
at the head of my profession, and was only waiting for the tide--being
prepared for it--that was to lead me to fame and fortune. But young as
I was, the life I had led had already destroyed my constitution.
Rheumatism had planted itself firmly in my bones, and want of
nourishing food had so weakened me, that I felt like an old man. It
was only the fire of enthusiasm that sustained me. I believed myself
to be what I represented at night; I lost all consciousness of my poor
self while I was acting; and would often come from the theatre with
the dream strong upon me, and in my sleep weave fancies sufficiently
bright and beautiful to recompense me for the material hardships of my
working life.
I was at the height of my powers, when it was both my happiness and my
misery to come to a town where we had arranged to stop for a
fortnight, and where I gained such honors in the shape of applause as
had never before fallen to my lot. It was a prosperous town, and our
two weeks' stay was so remunerative, that we thought it advisable to
lengthen our visit. We staid for six weeks--for six happy weeks. The
place rang with my praises. I was a wonder, a genius; such acting had
never been seen. Throughout the whole of my career I had preserved my
self-respect; what I suffered, I suffered in silence. I complained to
no one, and I never forgot my determination to prove, what perhaps my
father might one day be forced to own, that an actor may be as good a
man as a clergyman. Being therefore, in my habits of life, somewhat
above my companions, and having been so successful in the town, I was
courted by some of the towns-people, and received invitations to their
houses. I was what is termed, I believe, a social success; and I was
proud of it. Here was I, an actor, moving in as good society as was my
father, a clergyman. Who was right now, he or I. During the second
week of our stay, I was invited to an evening party; and as my part in
the performance for that night would be finished by nine o'clock, I
was enabled to accept the invitation. Fatal night--happy night! That
night was the real commencement of my life; it shaped my career in
this world, and it makes me look forward with joy unspeakable to the
world beyond, where I shall rejoin the mother of my darling child. Her
family were well born, ad occupied a high position in the town. They
were looked upon as leaders of fashion; and I learned that night that
they were among the principal patrons of the theatre, and that her
father had passed the highest encomiums upon me. They were not present
at the party, and their daughter was accompanied by her aunt, an
eccentric wealthy lady, with whom she resided during the greater part
of the year. I had the good fortune to find favor in the eyes of this
lady, who had a passion for celebrities, and she invited me to her
house. The invitation arose in this way; she had been to the theatre
on the previous evening, and a gentleman in her company had taken
exception to one of my readings. She mentioned it to me, telling me
that she had insisted that I was right, and at the same time confessed
to me, that she had not the slightest idea upon the subject, and had
been prompted to side with me only for the reason that the gentleman
was the most insufferably-conceited person on the face of the earth.
"He is not satisfied unless he is master in every thing," said the old
lady with wonderful warmth; "he is dictatorial, self-willed,
ungenerous, and supercilious--so much so, that he will scarcely
condescend to argue a point upon which he has expressed an opinion.
Nothing would please me more than to be able to bring evidence against
him respecting your reading."
It so happened that my reading was the correct one, and that the
emendation made by the gentleman was unsupported by authority. I told
her so, and she was delighted.
"But it will be of no use my telling him what you say," she said;
"and it would not be proper to bring you together for the purpose of
quarrelling about it."
Then I suggested a way. I would consult two or three old editions of
Shakspeare we had in the company, and have fair copies of the passage
made from them, with any notes or annotations that might be attached
to it. There was no occasion, I said, to let the gentleman know that I
supplied the evidence; it would be sufficient for him to see the
quotations and the authorities, and he would be able to test their
correctness for himself. She thanked me warmly, and I frankly owned to
her that I was almost as much interested in the matter as she was
herself.
"Ah! you are a student," she said, tapping me with her fan, "and are
not actuated by such small motives as I am."
I told her that it had been my nature, ever since I remembered myself,
to be in earnest in what I did. Success could not be attained without
earnestness, I said; and such a spirit was not thrown away even when
exhibited in the smallest matters. The old lady was pleased with my
conversation, and asked me to bring the written quotations to her
house the following day. She then introduced me to her niece.
Bear with me for a little while. When I commenced, I intended to be
more brief but I have been carried away by a tide of memories. These
things that I have spoken of have dwelt in my mind, but mention of
them has not passed my tongue; not even my daughter has ever heard
from me the story of my life. All the memories that are dearest to me
are stirred into life by my speech; and in the midst of the darkness
in this room, where nothing human exists but ourselves, I see my wife
as I saw her that night for the first time--as I shall see her soon in
a better land.
Good and evil, consciously wrought, are not of this world alone; mind
you that, Joshua Marvel. They bear their fruit hereafter. In what way
or in what shape we do not know--but they bear their fruit. I never
loved but one woman in my life, and never was false to her, even in
thought. I never harbored an unworthy sentiment towards her. I loved
her truly, purely, solely, as she loved me. If I had done her wrong,
and, loving her, had played false with another by a single act, by a
single word of encouragement, even if it were weakly given in a moment
of weakness, I could not look into this darkness as I do now without
fear and shuddering.
(What was it that passed into the room? The deep darkness that
prevailed, no less than the intense interest with which Joshua
followed the course of Basil's story, prevented him from seeing. Yet
it was no less certain that the door was gently opened, and that a
person with noiseless footfall entered the room, and, wrapped in
shade, stood silent in listening attitude.)
She loved me, and sacrificed herself for me. Loving me, she conceived
it to be her duty to follow me; she forsook friends and family, and
imperilled her good name for me; and in this solemn moment, when all
the dearest memories of my life give life to my words, life to my
thoughts, I bless her for it! Her devotion, unworldly as it was, was
sanctified by love. There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not
sanctify!
(A sound, half sigh, half sob, floated on the air, but so light that
Joshua doubted if he had heard it. It reached Basil's ears. Rising in
bed, he clutched Joshua by the shoulder, and whispered in trembling
tones, "Can spirits speak, and make themselves heard? Did you hear any
thing?"
"Something like a sigh, I thought," said Joshua; "and yet it is not
possible."
Rising, he walked to the door; but whoever it was that had entered so
noiselessly had so departed.
"There is no one here; it must have been fancy."
Basil sank down in the bed, exhausted by emotion, and it was long
before he resumed his story. During the silence, Joshua thought of
Ellen, and was happy. Such love as Basil Kindred had spoken of, Ellen
had given to him. "But she will not have to sacrifice herself for me,"
he thought; "hers and mine will be a happier lot, I hope." Yet Basil's
life was grand and noble. "Like a great storm at sea," thought Joshua,
"and two small boats, lashed together, contending against it vainly."
His thoughts were interrupted by Basil's voice.)
I need not describe her. Minnie is like her; but she was more
beautiful even than Minnie. I went to the aunt's house, and was a
frequent visitor there. Alice and I loved each other from the first.
How I won her pure heart, I do not know. I will not say I was unworthy
of her; for I was animated by a true ambition, and I was earnest and
conscientious in all I did. I did not deceive her; I told her exactly
what I was, what I had suffered, and what I hoped to gain. She paid no
heed to worldly matters; she loved me, and that was enough. She
sympathized with me in my ambition, and said it was a noble one. Her
words were like wine to me; they strengthened and encouraged me.
During the last week of our contemplated stay in the town I was
stricken down by rheumatic fever, and was confined to my bed for
nearly two months. The other members of the dramatic company waited
for me for a few days, hoping I would get well; but I grew worse, and
they were too poor to remain idle; so they left without me, and I was
alone in the place.
I was delirious for a long time, and knew no one about me. How well I
remember the day when consciousness returned! I opened my eyes,
wondering where I was, and what had occurred yesterday to cause me to
feel so deliciously weak; but I could not understand it, and I lay
contented and happy, as if newly born into a world of peace and
blissful repose. But as I lay--it might have been for a few moments or
a few hours--a soft murmur of voices fell on my ear. I did not turn
immediately in the direction of the sound; I was content to lie and
listen to the murmur, and had no desire to analyze it--it so
harmonized with my condition--there was such a sense of luxurious ease
in it: it was like the soft lapping of the sea upon a shore of velvet
sand! But with returning consciousness, my mind was gradually aroused
into activity; and in the whispering of voices, a familiar note,
sweeter and more musical than the rest, came to me. Lazily I turned my
head, and saw my darling Alice. Our eyes met, and it was like a flash
of light. I understood in that instant that she had been my
ministering angel during my sickness. A look of pity and love was in
her eyes as I turned to her, and she glided to my side and took my
hand in hers.
"Alice darling!" I whispered. My voice was tremulous as a blade of
grass in the summer air.
"Dear Basil!" she said in reply.
No heavenly happiness can be greater than that which entered my
grateful heart at that moment. All sense of sight and touch and
hearing--all heart and soul and mind--were merged in the exquisite
belief that inwrapped me then--in the faith that constituted itself a
part of me, inseparable, indissoluble, that is mine through all
time--that she and I were one for ever and ever!
She sat with me until my landlady warned her that it was time to go.
When she was gone, I learned that not a day had passed since my
sickness that she had not come to see me.
"Alone?" I asked.
"Yes, alone," my landlady said, adding that she had not spoken to any
one of the young lady's visits, as they might have been misconstrued.
The significant tone in which she said this caused me to reflect that
Alice's visits, if discovered, would expose her to the world's
censure, and I begged my landlady to preserve silence upon the
subject.
I will not linger upon this part of my story. Alice's visits were
discovered; and one day, when I was nearly well, and when I was
sitting by the window waiting for her beloved presence, I received a
visit from her aunt.
I saw the unpleasant news in her face directly she entered the room.
She commenced by saying she was glad to see I was nearly well, and
that she trusted I would not take advantage of a young girl's
indiscretion.
"It was by the merest accident I discovered that my niece has been in
the habit of coming to see you every day," said the old lady; "and she
has been very rash and indiscreet; you must see that, I'm sure."
I did not see it, and I told her so.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the old lady; "you are a man, and you know the
ways of the world and its judgment. As a man of honor, you must not
encourage my niece in her folly."
"Is it a folly to love?" I asked.
But the old lady would not listen to argument, and she demanded my
promise that I would not see my darling again.
Firmly I refused to give it, unless Alice asked me to do so. We were
pledged to each other, I said, and it was out of my power to break the
engagement, unless; Alice wished it broken.
The old lady was terrified by my firmness; and when she asked me what
I meant to do, and I told her that I meant to marry her niece, she
exclaimed aghast,--
"Marry her! and you an actor!"
"Yes; and I an actor," I answered proudly.
She kept with me for more than an hour, begging and entreating; but
she could not move me. I was contending for what was dearer to me than
life, and an old woman's worldly arguments could not make me false to
myself and to my love. She tempted me too--offered me money to leave
the town. After that, I was silent; I would speak to her no more upon
the subject. When she had exhausted herself, and rose to go, I opened
the door for her; and before she went out, I thanked her for her
hospitality to me, and expressed my regret that I should have been the
means of causing her pain. She made no reply; but I fancied I saw a
pitying expression on her face as she passed out.
I was overwhelmed by despair, and might have been guilty of I don't
know what extravagance, had not my darling foreseen my misery, and
provided against it. Within an hour of the departure of Alice's aunt,
a note was given to me by my landlady. It was from my darling herself.
She knew her aunt's errand; she knew that I was true to her; and she
told me not to lose heart, for she was mine, and mine only, and would
be true to me till death. Truly, those words were like oil upon the
troubled waters; my mind was instantly composed, and a deep peace and
joy fell upon me. The last words of her little note were to the effect
that she would find means to write to me again soon; and she begged me
not to go away until she saw me.
So I waited, and grew strong; and time passed, until there came an
evening when we met--met never to part again. It was a solemn meeting;
there was no hesitation on one side, or entreaty on the other. We
walked up and down in the rear of a wood-side inn; and my landlady,
whom I had asked to accompany me, stood a little distance from us. My
darling told me that her family were about to take her to the
Continent, and that she saw no way of resisting. "There is one," I
said. And as I said this, I stood by the side of an old elm, and she
stood with drooping head before me. "There is one. We are pledged to
each other till death. If I parted from you now in the belief that we
should not meet again, I would pray to God to end my life here where I
stand."
"Tell me what I shall do," she answered, "and I will do it."
"Follow me," I said. "Share my life, hard though it may be. Be mine,
as I am yours. Let us walk together till death, and after it."
She placed her hand in mine, and answered me in the words of Ruth, and
I folded her to my breast, and kissed her.
So, accompanied by my landlady, we turned our backs to the town where
we first met, and the next day we were married.
Ali, how happy we were, and how our lives seemed spread before us like
a bright holiday, which was to be spent in a land where the air was
always sweet--where the flowers were always blooming! No thought of
winter; but it came, with its frost and snow, and racked me with a
renewal of the old pains. I could have borne them cheerfully, if they
had not sometimes prevented me from working. We fell into poverty; and
through all its bitterness she never complained, and never gave me one
word of reproach. Nay, often and often, when she saw that my
sufferings were increased by the thought that I had asked her to share
my poor life, she comforted me and cheered me with tender speech, that
fell like balm upon my soul. I struggled on in my profession, gaining
applause always, but never seeming to mount a step nearer to the goal
where fame and fortune stood beckoning me. My wife had written to her
family without my knowledge; but not one of them replied except her
good aunt, who sent her a small sum of money. When Minnie was born she
wrote again, but the old lady was dead. Still, somehow we managed: our
wants were small, and our happiness was perfect. We had to travel
about a great deal; and when we had not sufficient money to pay our
coach-fares, we walked, and made the way light for each other by
cheering words. Many scores of miles have I--the great tragedian, as
they called me in the bills--carried our little Minnie in my arms,
lulling her to sleep, or pointing out to her the beauties of nature,
as they peeped at us out of hedgerows, or as they sprang up in the
gardens of great mansions, where they were not hidden by grim walls,
as if their owners were jealous lest the poor toilers on the road
should enjoy their lovely forms and colors. Now and then we got a lift
on a wagon, and the music of the bells on the horses' necks often
lulled Minnie to sleep. We seldom staid in one place longer than a
fortnight; but once we stopped in a town for nearly four months,
playing three nights a week. That was a happy time. I used to come
home from the theatre when my work was done, and Alice and I would sit
in our humble lodgings until late in the night, talking of such
matters as were nearest to our hearts; painting the future in bright
colors, and weaving fancies about our Minnie, who would sometimes be
lying awake on her mother's lap, and whose little fingers would clasp
one of mine as the ivy clasps the oak. We made many friends--false
friends most of them, attracted by my wife's beauty--friends whose
speech was fair, but whose thoughts were treacherous. But rocks on
which many a woman's good name and happiness have been wrecked melted
like snow before my wife's purity. And still we struggled on, hoping
against hope, until there came a time which cast a shadow on me never
to be removed except by death. It was in the autumn of the year. My
wife had been ill, and I had to nurse her and carry her about, and
study and work, while my heart was almost breaking; for the doctors
had told me she required wine and nourishing food, and I was earning
barely sufficient to pay for the commonest necessaries. One night when
I left the theatre, the rain was pouring down like a second deluge. I
had been playing the principal parts in tragedy and comedy, and I came
into the street hot and flushed with my exertions. It was the last
night I ever played. The rain soaked me to the skin; but I took no
heed of that; I was too anxious to reach home. I crept into our one
room, and found my wife asleep. I sat by her side and looked at her
pale face, and recalled the past. I saw her as she had been five years
before, a bright and beautiful girl; and as she was now, pale and wan
as a ghost. I heard her whisper, "Until death, Basil--until death!" I
threw myself on my knees by the bedside, and hid my face on the bed in
utter prostration; and while I knelt, my body turned cold as ice, then
hot as fire, and a feeling like the feeling of death came upon me.
"_Is_ it death?" I asked myself; and I almost rejoiced at the thought
that we might pass away together. When I raised my head, the room
seemed to be thronged with visible fancies. The light and brilliancy
of the theatre; the dark night with its down-pour of rain; Alice as
she was when I first met her; my father's study, and he and I looking
defiantly at each other; all these pictures, and many others, were
before me, and for a moment seemed to be in harmony with each other.
Unutterable confusion among them followed; and then a darkness fell
upon me.
Weeks passed before the darkness cleared away. When I recovered my
senses, I found my patient angel nursing me, although she was scarcely
stronger than I was. But what will not a woman's love accomplish? We
were not in the same town in which I had fallen sick. She had removed
me to a village some twenty miles distant from my native place. I did
not discover this until I was able to rise and move about. I was but a
shadow of myself; all my strength had left me, and I was like a child.
I was to discover something worse than that. I was to discover that my
memory was gone, and that, although I could repeat snatches of parts I
had played, I could not, study as hard as I would--and I tried
diligently during my convalescence--get the complete parts into my
head. My wife helped me--looked at the book while I stumbled
on--prompted me, encouraged me, bade me rest for a day and try again.
All in vain. If I was rehearsing the scenes in "Hamlet," speeches and
lines uttered by Macbeth and Lear, interpolated themselves, and I grew
hopelessly confused.
So, then--my occupation was gone; my ambition was at an end. The
knowledge would have been bitter enough to bear had I been by myself;
but there were my wife and daughter, my darling Minnie, my patient
suffering Alice, to provide for, and I in debt, without a penny in the
world, and without any means of driving white-faced hunger from my
dear ones. The despairing conviction almost brought on a relapse, and
it was only by the strongest effort of will that I kept my senses. But
I could not get strong; rheumatism had fastened itself too firmly in
my bones, and would not be driven away; and I was afflicted with
distressful shudderings and with feverish attacks, during which I knew
no one about me. Winter was coming on fast. Every atom of clothing
that could be spared had been sold by my wife; what she must have
suffered, dear angel! can never be told. Was it my selfishness or
blindness that prevented me from seeing death written in her face? I
did not see it--I did not suspect it--until the time when her cold
body lay before me. She suffered--yes; she could not disguise that
from me; but the pleasant smile and the cheerful look of content and
hope with which she always answered my wistful gaze, blinded me to her
condition and to the extent of her sufferings. I did not ask her why
she had brought me to the village--I guessed that it was because I had
known it in my happier days, and because it might induce me to think
of my father, and of the advisability of asking help from him. She did
not say a word upon the subject. She knew the story of my boyish life,
and was content that I should do as I thought best. But she was a
mother as well as a wife, and she deemed it to be her duty to bring me
where, if I so pleased, I might possibly obtain assistance. I thought
over it, and, bitter as it was, I saw that my duty lay clear before
me. I would sacrifice my pride and humble myself to my father. And yet
I hesitated--hesitated until one morning my wife came into the room
looking so strange that I passed my hand before my eyes, wondering if
I were awake.
"Alice!" I cried.
She came to my side with a cheerful look. Her beautiful hair, that had
hung down to her waist was gone. I took her upon my knee, and folded
her in my arms, and sobbed like a little child. She soothed and
comforted me.
"It will grow again," she said, knowing but too well that before that
time came she would be beneath the daisies. "The landlady wanted
money, and every thing was sold but that. See, I can pay her."
"All?" I asked.
"No, not all," she said cheerfully; "but perhaps some good fortune
will come to us."
That morning I wrote to my father. I told him that I was married to a
gentlewoman, noble, good, and pure, that we had a child, and that I
was ill and in want. But no answer came. I wrote again, begging him to
reply and to assist us. Still no answer. And meanwhile my wife was
fading before my eyes, and our landlady clamored for what was due to
her. Oh, if I could have sold my blood for money, I would have done
it, when I heard her coarse tongue revile my wife! I tottered into the
passage.
"Woman!" I cried, "you shall be paid. I will go and get money."
"Where?" asked my wife in a faint voice.
"At my father's," I answered. "Come, we will go and lay our sorrows at
his feet."
I took Minnie in my arms, and we started in the direction of my native
town. It was not until we had walked four or five miles that we
discovered how weak we were. We were penniless and hungry, and Minnie
was crying for food. I went into a public-house, and begged for some.
I was turned out without ceremony; but a common woman, who was
drinking with a tinker, ran after me--God bless her for it!--and put a
biscuit into Minnie's hand. We struggled on. A mile nearer. My wife
grew white in the face, and her lips were black. And as I looked at
her, there came by her side the image of what she was, ruddy,
bright-eyed, rosy-lipped. I saw it, I tell you. The impalpable shape
of the beautiful girl, radiant with health, walked with light step by
the side of the careworn haggard-faced woman. I must have been crazed.
She saw in my face the disturbed condition of my mind.
"Courage!" she whispered, taking my arm.
I laughed, and looked around. Fortunately, no one was near us, or I
should have robbed him--weak as I was, despair would have given me
strength. I have asked myself since, if it would have been a crime,
and have not found the answer. Ten miles were compassed when a storm
came on--a dreadful pitiless storm, in which the slanting wall of rain
before us seemed to shut out hope. We toiled through it, fainting from
weariness and hunger; we toiled through it, until I fell prone to the
earth. My wife knelt by me in the wet grass, and implored me to make
another effort for her sake, for our child's. I tried to rise, but
could not. All that I could do was to drag myself to a clump of trees,
where I lay exhausted. Every word that passed between us from that
time is too deeply engraven on my mind ever to be forgotten.
"Wife," I said, "the struggle is over. Kiss me and forgive me."
In the midst of her agony, a sweet smile irradiated her face. I could
not see it, but I knew it was there by her voice.
"Forgive you, husband!" she exclaimed, as she kissed me. "We have
nothing to forgive each other. Pity and love are all that I feel now.
Love for you and our darling Minnie,"--and she placed our little
darling's hand on my aching eyes--"and pity for your great
sufferings."
Not a word of herself! Her pure unselfish nature was triumphant over
all. As surely as we have hands to feel and eyes to see such love as
hers is heaven-born, and dies not with the flesh!
"Rest here," she said, placing our child in my arms. "I will go and
seek help. Keep up your heart while I am gone."
I had no power to stop her, and she left me and was lost in the gloom.
Hours must have passed, though it was night when I awoke. I had fallen
into sleep, and in my dreams all the circumstances of my life played
their miserable parts; from the dawn of my ambition down to the words
of my wife, "I will go and seek help. Keep up your heart while I am
gone." When those words were uttered, I followed my wife, in my dream,
as she stumbled on through the darkness. Suddenly I lost her; then a
whisper of pain stole upon me, and I heard her murmur, "Come to me,
Basil; I am dying." A strength born of fear enabled me to rise
shuddering to my feet. "Alice!" I cried. No voice answered me, but I
still seemed to hear the echo of the words, "Come to me, Basil; I am
dying." With Minnie in my arms, I followed the sound. Some wonderful
chance directed my steps aright. How far I walked, I do not know. The
rain was still falling, but there was a glimmering light in the sky to
guide me. The trees, past which I crept painfully and wearily, were
bare of leaves; their naked branches were emblematical of the
desolation of my heart. I crept onward until I came to a spot where I
saw a form lying on the ground. No need to tell me whose form it was
that I saw before me. No sound came from the lips, no sign of life was
observable in the limbs. The ghostly echo of the cry, "Come to me,
Basil; I am dying!" died away upon the wind as I fell by the side of
my darling, who had sacrificed her life for me. I raised her head on
my lap, and looked into her white face. The eyelids quivered, opened;
a look of joy leaped into her eyes.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" I wailed; "wait for me."
I inclined my head to her lips, for they were moving.
"I will wait for you, Basil. There!" And she looked up to heaven,
while the cruel rain poured down upon her face.
I placed Minnie's lips to hers, and the child clasped her little arms
round her mother's neck.
"Live, Basil," she said slowly and painfully, "live for her. No, no!"
fearing that I was going from her, "do not leave me yet!"
Her fingers tightened on mine, and she closed her eyes. I leaned over
her to protect her from the rain. In that supreme moment of sacrifice
a smile rested on her lips.
"Till death, and after it, Basil, my love!" she whispered.
And her soul passed away into the wintry night.
"You are crying," said Basil Kindred, after a long pause. "My story
has touched your heart. I have told it to you for the purpose of
opening your eyes to Minnie's nature. She is like her mother, without
her mother's teaching. She is a wildflower; the impulse of her mind is
under the control of the impulse of her heart. She is oblivious of all
else, defiant of all else. Those of her friends who have the
consciousness of a higher wisdom than she possesses--those of them who
can recognize that the promptings of such a heart as hers may possibly
lead her into dangerous paths--must guide her gently, tenderly. If any
betray her, he will have to answer for it at the Judgment-seat.
Joshua, you said to me, when you entered this room, that you had not
forgotten the blessing I gave you on the first day of our meeting. I
repeat that blessing. In all your actions that deserve blessings and
prosperity, I say, God bless and prosper you, Joshua Marvel! Now leave
me."
Joshua's face was wet with tears, and his heart was throbbing with
sympathy for Basil as he walked down stairs. In the passage he heard a
footfall that he knew to be Minnie's. It was too dark to see her face.
"Is that you, Minnie?"
"Yes, Joshua," she answered, in a low voice. "You have been sitting
with father."
"Yes."
"I have been wishing to speak to you, and I was afraid I might not get
the opportunity, for father is very strange to me. When does your ship
sail, Joshua?"
"In a very few days Minnie."
"I should so much like to see it, if there was no harm in my coming."
"What harm can there be, Minnie?" exclaimed Joshua. "Come to-morrow to
the docks at twelve o'clock when the men are at their dinner. Bring
Ellen or Susan with you, and ask for the 'Merry Andrew,' and I will
show you over it."
"Thank you, Joshua. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Minnie."
As their hands met, Susan, carrying a light, came from the kitchen.
Joshua did not wish Susan to see the tears on his face, and he turned
hastily away as she approached. But she did not appear to notice
either him or Minnie, as she passed to the upper part of the house;
and the next moment Minnie glided away, and Joshua entered the room
where Dan and Ellen were sitting.
The following day Joshua, looking over the bulwarks of the "Merry
Andrew," saw Minnie standing in bewilderment amidst the busy life and
the confusion of bales and cases on the wharf. He was surprised to
find that she was alone. He hastened to her side, and asked her why
Ellen or Susan had not come with her, and received for reply that she
had thought they were both too busy, and had not liked to ask them.
"But you don't mind my coming by myself, Joshua, do you?" she said,
looking into his face.
"No," he said, returning her gaze. Her eyes were sparkling with youth
and health, and her cheeks had a bright color in them from the brisk
walk she had taken in the crisp air. "But I would have preferred your
not coming alone."
"I will go back rather than offend you."
"Offend me!" he exclaimed. "You are a stupid to talk of offending me.
And as for going back, that would be sheer nonsense now you have taken
the trouble to come."
It was impossible to look at her without pleasure; she was as
beautiful as the spring. A good many of the sailors turned to take
another peep at her, and thought what a lucky fellow the third mate of
the "Merry Andrew" was to have such a lass as that to come and see
him. But he was in luck's way right round, they said to each other as
they walked along. Joshua, not wishing to submit Minnie to their
prying looks--although, being human, he was proud of them a little
bit, it must be confessed--took her hand to lead her up the gangway.
It was not easy for Minnie to get aboard, and Joshua had almost to
carry her.
"How strong you are," she said, "to be able to carry a big girl like
me! And this is your ship."
"It is lumbered up at present, Minnie," he said; "but when we are at
sea, and the decks are cleared, and the sails are set, and we are
flying along before a fair wind, it is a little better than this, I
can tell you. I can smell the sweet spray now, as it comes dashing
up." His nostrils dilated at the mere thought of the ocean, and
involuntarily he passed his hand before his eyes, clearing away
imaginary spray.
"How beautiful it must be!" exclaimed Minnie.
Joshua abated a little of his enthusiasm. "It's all very well in fine
weather, when the wind and sea are kind; but you would be frightened
at storms."
"Not if you were on the ship, Joshua," she said dreamingly, but in so
soft and low a voice that he did not catch the words; yet he looked at
her keenly; but she did not notice his gaze, for she was wrapped in
thought, and her eyes were turned from him. So still did she stand,
that Joshua touched her sleeve to attract her attention. She started,
as if he had aroused her from sleep, and then they went over the ship
together. She was very anxious to see every thing, and they had a busy
half-hour. The last part of the ship they went into was the saloon.
"Captain Liddle has been very particular about the saloon," Joshua
said, "for his wife is coming with us this voyage. Here are their
cabins--one for the captain and his wife, and this little one
adjoining for her maid."
Minnie peeped into the cabins, and wondered how ladies could live in
such a dark place. Joshua had to explain that the cabins were dark
because the ship was in dock, and that when they got out at sea there
was light enough for any thing. Then they ascended to the deck again,
and Minnie thanked Joshua and prepared to go. Just at that moment
Joshua saw--or fancied he saw--Susan standing on the wharf. She was
standing quite still, and her eyes were fixed on the poop of the
"Merry Andrew."
"Why, there's Susan!" he exclaimed; and, leaving Minnie on deck, he
hurried down the gangway. But the woman was gone, and he could find no
trace of her. He returned to Minnie in a state of perplexity.
"I thought I saw Susan on the wharf," he said.
"You must have been mistaken, Joshua," said Minnie; "she was hard at
work at home when I left. If it had been Susan, she would not have
gone away when you went towards her."
"I suppose I _must_ have been mistaken. Good-morning, Minnie; take
care of yourself going home."
He led her down the gangway, and Minnie made her way, like a gleam of
sunshine among the throng of rough workingmen, who stood aside to let
her pass, and sent admiring looks after her. During his work that
afternoon Joshua thought much of her, and of her father's anxiety
concerning her. "Mr. Kindred is right," he thought. "Minnie requires
gentle tender guidance; such guidance as Dan can give her, and will
have the right to do soon, I hope. She can have no better teacher,
wiser counsellor, than Dan!"
So he mused and worked, and saw no signs of the dark clouds that were
gathering about him.