MARGARET'S BIRTHDAY.
The story draws to a close, and there is little more to tell; the
rest is such plain sailing that it might almost be taken for granted.
There is one little scene, however, pleasant to write and possibly
pleasant to read, which took place on August 15th of that same year,
in the church at Sealing; and in explanation of which a short account
should be given of what happened after Dr. James had come to live in
New York.
He had taken rooms in that city and begun to work among the poor,
doing much although with small means. He began to go regularly every
day to Miss Lester's house in the afternoon; then they walked and
drove together, and learned to know each other well. He was often
with her in the morning, too, and together they visited many a sick
and suffering soul, leaving behind them comfort, encouragement, and
substantial relief. They every week knelt together at the altar of
the little French chapel Margaret loved so well, and received God's
greatest gift of love to man, and it was a time of pure, unclouded
happiness.
It was June; and there had been a week of very warm weather. The
fashionables had fled from the city, or shut themselves up in their
houses, excluding every ray of light and sun. Dr. James, weary from
his morning's labors, had been home, refreshed himself a little, and
then, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, stood on the steps of
Margaret's house, and was ushered into the shady parlor. The green
blinds were closed, the carpets were gone, cool white matting was
on the floors, and great bunches of roses stood about on tables and
mantel-pieces. Margaret came to meet him, fresh and cool in her
light dress, and holding in her hand a very beautiful line engraving
of the Dresden "Madonna and Child."
"See, Dr. James, what Martha has given me for a birthday present."
"Why did you not tell me beforehand that this was your birthday, that
I might have given you a present?"
"Truly, because I forgot it till I found this on the breakfast-table
this morning. It seems I told Martha at Shellbeach that this was my
birthday, and she remembered it. Was she not kind?"
"I want to speak to you about leaving the city," said the doctor;
"the hot weather has come, and it will not be healthy for you to be
here. The cholera may be about, they say, and you go into places
where you will be sure to catch it."
"So do you."
"But a doctor is pretty safe; he can guard against infection in a
great measure."
"Well, a great many other people stay in New York and do not get
sick. The religious and priests stay in their houses, and they go
among more wretched people than I do."
"Yes; but Miss Lester, you are not a religious; your life has not
been wholly consecrated to God, as theirs have."
"I can't see why, because I have not a vocation for a religious life,
that should make any difference."
"Plainly, then, because your life is precious, if not to yourself, to
other people; to me. It should not be lightly thrown away."
"I shall not throw it away; I don't believe in contagion. God will
preserve my life, if he wishes it to be spared."
"Yes; but God is not called upon to work a miracle in your behalf;
and if you wilfully expose yourself to danger, he may not interpose
to avert the consequences."
Margaret was silent, and the doctor continued, with an effort,
"I said your life was precious to me; and though you did not notice
it, I say it again. I have never had courage till to-day to speak to
you about the letter I wrote you at Shellbeach; but it is possible
for me to do so now. You did not seem angry with me when I saw you
at the wedding. Had you forgotten it, or didn't you care for my
rudeness?"
"I cared for it; that is, of course, I was sorry, perhaps hurt;
still, not for a moment angry or offended. I knew that you were not
cruel but kind, for you told the truth; and any thing except the
truth would have been unkindness. I honored you for writing it."
"Yet it was not the truth; although in writing it I sincerely and
honestly believed it to be the truth. I said I did not love you; I
believed I did not love you; but I had no sooner read your letter
than scales seemed to fall from my eyes. You see, I was sure that
you were perfectly indifferent to me; and I thought you would write
me a polite letter, expressing friendship, esteem, etc., and regret
if I had suffered disappointment; and then that you would go off
to New York and leave me to support the downfall of my hopes as
best I might. I was sure of this, and your parting words that night
seemed to confirm me in it. 'She wishes to part friends,' I thought
to myself, 'because she believes she is going to ruin my hopes of
happiness.' I was filled with unpleasant and bitter feelings. I read
your letter, and the ground seemed to go from under my feet, and I
realized what a blind fool I had been. I felt then but one longing,
which I feel still, although I know its uselessness and absurdity:
that you might be, by some chance, stripped of your fortune to the
last cent, that I might lay my poor little pittance at your feet and
implore your acceptance of it.
"Oh! if I could tell you what I endured. Shellbeach became unbearable
to me; all life and interest seemed to have left me. How I missed
you! You can never imagine it, and I cannot describe it. The more I
thought of you, the more wretched I became, and after that wedding I
felt tenfold worse. I went home to my mother for a change; and then
resolved to put you completely out of my head, and, as an assistance,
resumed my study of Catholicity, that I had for a time neglected.
Then, though I blush to own it, and would not risk my standing in
your estimation by telling you of it except that it proves my love
for you, the only thing which deterred me from entering the church
was the thought that I should lose your esteem, and that it would
completely cut me off from any chance I might ever have again of
winning you for my wife. Your second letter came, and seemed as an
answer from heaven, 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' You
know the rest--but I cannot go on. Even supported by the blessed
sympathy we have in our faith, I cannot ask for what my heart craves."
"Dr. James, you seem to feel as if you were before me as a criminal
before his judge. Now you have done only what was right and true
toward me, and you owe me no apology for any thing. You and I, I
believe, have done each other real good, and we have mutually helped
each other into the church; we stand on equal ground, and I will
accept no other position."
Dr. James looked searchingly at her, and said in a low voice,
"You do me good and make me feel like myself. Then, Margaret, though
I am not worthy of you, will you be my wife?"
Margaret laid her hand in his,
"I will, if God allows me so much happiness."