YEARS seem to have passed. They have mellowed life into ripeness. The
start, and change, and hot ambition of youth seem to have gone by. A
calm and joyful quietude has succeeded. That future which still lies
before me seems like a roseate twilight, sinking into a peaceful and
silent night.
My home is a cottage, near that where Isabel once lived. The same valley
is around me; the same brook rustles and loiters under the gnarled roots
of the overhanging trees. The cottage is no mock cottage, but a
substantial, wide-spreading cottage, with clustering gables and ample
shade, such a cottage as they build upon the slopes of Devon. Vines
clamber over it, and the stones show mossy through the interlacing
climbers. There are low porches, with cozy armchairs, and generous
oriels, fragrant with mignonette, and the blue blossoming violets.
The chimney stacks rise high and show clear against the heavy pine
trees, that ward off the blasts of winter. The dovecote is a habited
dovecote, and the purple-necked pigeons swoop around the roofs in great
companies. The hawthorn is budding into its June fragrance along all the
lines of fence, and the paths are trim and clean. The shrubs—our
neglected azaleas and rhododendrons chiefest among them—stand in
picturesque groups upon the close-shaven lawn.
The gateway in the thicket below is between two mossy old posts of
stone; and there is a tall hemlock flanked by a sturdy pine for
sentinel. Within the cottage the library is wainscoted with native oak,
and my trusty gun hangs upon a branching pair of antlers. My rod and
nets are disposed above the generous bookshelves; and a stout eagle,
once a tenant of the native woods, sits perched over the central alcove.
An old-fashioned mantel is above the brown stone jambs of the country
fireplace, and along it are distributed records of travel, little bronze
temples from Rome, the _pietro duro_ of Florence, the porcelain busts of
Dresden, the rich iron of Berlin, and a cup fashioned from a stag’s
horn, from the Black Forest by the Rhine.
Massive chairs stand here and there, in tempting attitude; strewed over
an oaken table in the middle are the uncut papers and volumes of the
day, and upon a lion’s skin, stretched before the hearth, is lying
another Tray.
But this is not all. There are children in the cottage. There is
Jamie—we think him handsome—for he has the dark hair of his mother—and
the same black eye, with its long, heavy fringe. There is Carry—little
Carry I must call her now—with a face full of glee and rosy with health;
then there is a little rogue some two years old, whom we call Paul—a
very bad boy—as we tell him.
The mother is as beautiful as ever, and far more dear to me, for
gratitude has been adding, year by year, to love. There have been times
when a harsh word of mine, uttered in the fatigues of business, has
touched her, and I have seen that soft eye fill with tears, and I have
upbraided myself for causing her one pang. But such things she does not
remember, or remembers only to cover with her gentle forgiveness.
Laurence and Enrica are living near us. And the old gentleman, who was
Carry’s god-father, sits with me, on sunny days upon the porch, and
takes little Paul upon his knee, and wonders if two such daughters as
Enrica and Carry are to be found in the world. At twilight we ride over
to see Laurence; Jamie mounts with the coachman, little Carry puts on
her wide-rimmed Leghorn for the evening visit, and the old gentleman’s
plea for Paul can not be denied. The mother, too, is with us, and old
Tray comes whisking along, now frolicking before the horses’ heads, and
then bounding off after the flight of some belated bird.
Away from that cottage home I seem away from life. Within it, that broad
and shadowy future, which lay before me in boyhood and in youth, is
garnered—like a fine mist, gathered into drops of crystal.
And when away—those long letters, dating from the cottage home, are what
tie me to life. That cherished wife, far dearer to me now than when she
wrote that first letter, which seemed a dark veil between me and the
future—writes me now as tenderly as then. She narrates in her delicate
way all the incidents of the home life; she tells me of their rides, and
of their games, and of the new planted trees—of all their sunny days,
and of their frolics on the lawn; she tells me how Jamie is studying,
and of little Carry’s beauty growing every day, and of roguish Paul—so
like his father. And she sends such a kiss from each of them, and bids
me such adieu and such “God’s blessing” that it seems as if an angel
guarded me.
But this is not all; for Jamie has written a postscript:
——“Dear father,” he says, “mother wishes me to tell you how I am
studying. What would you think, father, to have me talk in
French to you, when you come back? I wish you would come back,
though; the hawthorns are coming out, and the apricot under my
window is all full of blossoms. If you should bring me a
present, as you almost always do, I would like a fishing rod.
Your affectionate son,