THE DOUBLE CONFESSION.
Ask her not why her heart has lost its lightness,
And hoards its dreamy thoughts, serenely still,
Like some pure lotus flower, that folds its whiteness
Upon the bosom of its native rill!
"Mary Fuller, what ails you? All this time your eyes are heavy, and
you look every other minute as if just going to cry. What is it all
about?"
This was a long speech for aunt Hannah, and it made Mary start and
blush like a guilty thing, especially as it followed a protracted
silence that had been disturbed only by the click of aunt Hannah's
knitting-needles.
"Matter with me, aunt? Nothing. What makes you think of me at all?"
"Because it is my duty to think of you. Because there is need that
some one should take care of you."
"Of me?" said Mary, blushing to the temples, "what have I done, aunt?"
"What everything of womankind must do, sooner or later, I suppose, my
poor girl."
"What is that, dear aunt?" faltered the girl.
The old lady laid down her knitting, and leaned on the candle-stand
with both her elbows; thus her aged face drew close to that of the
young girl.
"You have begun to love this artist youth, Mary Fuller!" she said, in
a low whisper, for the very name of love pained her old heart as a
sudden shock sends veins of silver along a sheet of ice. "Don't cry,
Mary; don't cry; it is a great misfortune, but no fault. How could you
help it, poor child!"
"Oh! aunt Hannah, how did you find this out?" whispered the
shame-stricken girl, "I thought"--
"That nobody knew it but yourself. Well, well, don't look so
frightened; it's no reason that others know it because I do."
"And Joseph, do you think? do you believe? I would not think it for a
moment," she continued, with the most touching humility, "but he
cannot fancy such a thing--and so I--I did not know but"--
"I think he loves you, Mary Fuller!" answered the old lady, breaking
through her hesitating phrases, in womanly pity of her embarrassment.
Mary started as if a blow had fallen upon her.
"Oh! don't, don't, I dare not believe it. What? me?--me? Please don't
say this, aunt Hannah, it makes the very heart quiver in my bosom."
"I am sure he loves you, Mary, or I would not say it. Do I ever joke?
Am I blind at heart?"
Mary Fuller covered her face, while great sobs of joy broke in her
bosom, and rushed in tears to her eyes.
"Oh! I am faint--I shall die of this great joy--but oh! if you should
be mistaken!"
"But I am _not_. How should _I_ be mistaken? When a mother buries her
child deep in the grave-yard, does she forget what mothers' love is?
Those who forget their youth in happiness may be deceived. I never
can!"
"And you think he loves me?"
Mary leaned forward and laid her clasped hands pleadingly on the
knotted fingers of the old maid.
Aunt Hannah looked down almost tenderly through her spectacles, and a
smile crept over her mouth.
"_I_ know he loves you."
Mary Fuller's radiant face drooped forward at these words, and she
fell to kissing these old hands eagerly, as if the knotted veins were
filled with honey dew upon which her heart feasted.
"Stop, stop!" said aunt Hannah, withdrawing her hands, and laying them
softly on the bowed head of her protege, "don't give way so; remember
Joseph is very feeble yet, from the fever that nearly cost him his
life, and that he has nothing to live on but what he calls his art;
Nathan and I might help him, but we have only a few acres of land to
live on, and are getting older every day. There is not the strength of
one robust man among us all--to say nothing of the poor girl up
stairs."
"But he loves me. Oh! aunt, you are sure of that?"
"But how can he marry you, poor as he is, with no more power to work
than a child?"
"Marry me! I never thought of that," said the girl, lifting her face
all in a glow from her hands, "but he will live here always, and so
will I. Morning and night, and all day long I shall see him, hear his
music, watch the changes of his beautiful, beautiful face. You may
grow old as fast as you like, you and uncle Nat; I can support you, he
will teach me to paint pictures, and we can sell them in the city.
Besides, Joseph can make music on the violin, and I have learned to
write it out on paper. The rich people in New York will give money for
music and pictures like his, I know; you shall not work so hard after
this, aunt Hannah; and as for uncle Nat, he shall snooze in his
easy-chair all day long if he likes."
Aunt Hannah shook her head, and a mist stole over her spectacles. She
was getting very childish in her old age, that stern old maid.
"You are a nice girl, Mary," she said, "and mean right, I know. But
Joseph will never be content to let you support him if you had the
strength. He is very manly and proud with all his softness."
"I know it, aunt, but then remember I am like his sister."
"But sisters do not support their brothers, and men do not like to
take favors where they ought to give them."
"Oh! aunt Hannah, you make me so unhappy. What difference can it make
which does the work where two people love each other?"
"This," answered the old maid; "women were born to look upward with
their hearts and cling to others for support--men were made to give
this support. You cannot change places and be happy!"
"I see, I see," murmured Mary Fuller, thoughtfully, "but Joseph will
get well again; only think how much better he is since he came to the
Old Homestead."
That moment Joseph came in from the garden, where he had been walking
by himself, for the day was fine, and he loved to gratify his eye for
colors, even among the vegetable beds and coarse garden flowers, and
had been quietly enjoying them till the dusk drove him in-doors.
Mary looked toward him wistfully. She remembered that for some days he
had seemed sad and preoccupied, going alone by himself and drawing
only sad strains from his violin.
"Aunt Hannah, I am glad you are here," said the youth, moving slowly
toward his seat by the stand; "I want to talk a little with you!"
Mary had drawn back as he came in; there was no candle lighted, and
she was lost in shadow.
As he spoke, Mary started and would have gone out, but aunt Hannah
extended her hands to prevent it, and the youth sat down sighing
heavily, doubtless unconscious of her presence. Two or three times, as
was his habit when thoughtful, he drew the slender fingers of his
right hand through his hair, scattering the curls back on his temples.
At length he spoke, but with hesitation.
"Aunt!"
"Well, Joseph!" and the old lady began to knit.
"Aunt, I come to say"--He paused, and drew the hand once or twice
across his forehead, as if to sweep aside some inward pain. Aunt
Hannah remained silent, knitting diligently.
"I must go away from here, aunt; you have given me shelter when I most
needed it. Now I must take to the world again."
Mary listened with a sinking heart and parted lips that grew cold and
white with each word. At last a wild sob arose in her throat, and the
veins upon her forehead swelled with the effort she made to suppress
it.
"You wish to leave us, then?" questioned aunt Hannah, coldly, "and
why?"
"My life is idle here, utterly idle and dependent. God did not smite
all the pride from my soul when he took my father. I cannot live on
the toil of two old people whom my own hands should support."
"But you are welcome Joseph; and we love to have you with us."
"I know it--still, this should make me only more anxious to relieve
your generosity of its burden."
"This is not all," said aunt Hannah, mildly, "you keep the principal
reason back for leaving us, tell me what it is?"
"Perhaps I ought--though the reason I have given should be enough.
Yes, aunt, there is another motive--do not laugh at my folly, that I
cannot dwarf myself and become a helpless nonentity, without a
struggle to grasp the blessings so much desired by other men. It has
been a happy time that I have known at the Old Homestead, still what
has it secured to me but unrest, and such disquiet as will follow me
through life, unless I work out a destiny for myself like other men?"
He broke off, hesitating for words, and a faint blush stole over his
face even in the darkness.
Aunt Hannah felt his embarrassment, and had compassion on him.
"I know all about it," she said, quietly, "you love Mary Fuller. She
is a good girl. Why not?"
"Why not?" exclaimed the youth, passionately, "I am penniless? Nay, it
is more than probable that I may never be really strong again."
"That is God's work, but no fault of yours!"
"But how can I support a wife? I who cannot earn bread for myself?"
"You wish to leave Mary then?"
"_Wish_ to leave her! Do the angels wish to flee from paradise, when
all its flowers are in blossom? No, bear with me, good aunt. It may be
folly, but, I have some power. Let me try it. Every year sends a troop
of persons to our country who turn their talent into gold. Why should
not I?"
"And what would you do then?" inquired the old lady.
"What should I do!" exclaimed the youth, with enthusiasm. "Why, return
to you with the money I had earned, and, instead of a burden, become a
protector to your old age."
"And Mary."
"Then I could, without cowering with shame at my own helplessness, ask
her to love me even as I love her."
"But how many years must go by before you can return to us? The best
part of her life and yours will have passed before then."
"I know it. I feel all the madness of my hopes. They are wild, insane
perhaps, but I will not give them up; do not ask me, do not discourage
me. Why must I, with my heart and brain alive like other men's, live
and die alone?"
Aunt Hannah looked towards Mary Fuller, who sat trembling in the
darkness. The triumphant consciousness that she was beloved,
overwhelmed the girl with a pleasure so exquisite that it almost
amounted to pain. Still she felt like a criminal stealing the secret
of her own happiness, but the shadows were too thick; aunt Hannah saw
nothing of this.
"And now," said the youth, more calmly, "you will let me depart, or I
shall speak out the love which is becoming too powerful for
concealment. I shall tell her that the beggar loves her and dreams of
making her his wife."
Mary arose, the joy at her heart swelled painfully, and her delicate
frame trembled beneath it. She would gladly have crept from the room
with her sweet burden of happiness, but this excitement had been
continued too long; her limbs gave way and she sank to the floor.
"Who is here? what is this?" cried the youth; "has another heard my
mad confession?"
"_I_ heard it all, forgive me, forgive me. I could not go out; at the
first attempt my strength gave way"--
"You heard me?" questioned the youth, pale and trembling. "You heard
all that I said. Girl, girl, you have stolen the secret from my heart
to despise me for it."
Mary Fuller rose to her feet, and drew towards him. The beauty of an
angel glowed in her face; it was bright with holy courage.
"Despise you for it! I, who love you so much!"
"Love me! Stop, Mary, do not say this if it is not holy truth, such as
one honest heart may render to another."
"It is holy truth. Take my hands in yours. See how they quiver with
the joy of your words."
"But I am poor, Mary Fuller, I am stricken in all my strength."
"And I, what am I?"
"Oh, you are an angel. I know you are that!"
"No, no!" cried the poor girl, covering her face with her hands.
"But you are. I drink in beauty from your voice, there is beauty in
your touch. Oh! how I love to hear you talk, it was music to me from
the first day I ever saw you."
"Oh, forbear, forbear, it is Isabel you are describing," said Mary,
shrinking away from him. "Oh! she is all this and more."
"Hush, Mary, hush; I feel the tones of your voice thrilling through
and through me. This is the best beauty I can comprehend. When you
disclaim it, I hear the tears breaking up through your voice, and it
grows heavenly in its sadness. Your beauty is immortal, it can never
grow old!"
The youth paused, and turned towards aunt Hannah, for his quick sense
had caught the sobs that she was striving to smother by burying her
face in her folded arms. Many a stern grief and sore trial had wrung
that aged heart, but for a quarter of a century she had not wept
heartily before. As she looked on these young persons, and witnessed
the first rich joy of their love, her heart gave way. The memories of
her youth came back, and in the fullness of her regrets she cried like
a child.
Mary Fuller withdrew her hand from her lover, and moving close to aunt
Hannah, stole her arm around her neck.
"Aunt, dear aunt, look up and tell Joseph that he must not leave us.
Tell him how strong I am to work for us all."
Aunt Hannah lifted her face, and swept the grey locks back from her
temples.
"What day of the month is this?" asked the old lady, standing up and
speaking in a subdued voice; "it should be near the tenth of
November."
"To-morrow will be the tenth," answered Mary.
"Stay together while I go talk with Isabel." With these words the old
woman went up stairs feebly, as if her tears had swept all the
strength from her frame.
Mary and her lover sat down by the hearth and fell into a sweet
fragmentary conversation. Soft low words and broken sentences, the
overflow of two hearts brimful of happiness alone, passed between
them. A strange timidity crept over them. Neither dared approach the
subject of a separation, though both were saddened by it.
Aunt Hannah came down at last, calmer, and with more of her usual cold
manner.
"Help me," said Mary, appealing to her; "oh! aunt, persuade him to
stay with us!"
"To-morrow will be time enough," was the answer. "Go away, now, and
God bless you both!"
Never in her whole life had the voice of aunt Hannah sounded so deep
with meaning, so solemn in its earnestness. It was seldom that she
ever blessed any one aloud, or entered, save passively, into the
devotions of the family--now her benediction had the energy of an
earnest soul in it. The very tones of her voice were changed. She
seemed to have thrown off the icy crust from her heart, and breathed
deeper for it.
Mary and Joseph went out, and sat down together in the starlight, that
fell softly upon them through the apple boughs. They had so many
things to say, and confessions to make; each was timidly anxious to
search the heart of the other, and read all the sweet hidden mysteries
that seemed fathomless there.
Meanwhile aunt Hannah went into the out-room--that in which her sister
Anna died, and kneeling down, with her hands pressed on the bottom of
a chair, broke into a passion so deep and earnest that her whole frame
shook with the agony of her struggle. She arose at length and began to
walk the floor, wringing her hands and moaning as if in pain. Thus she
toiled and struggled in prayer all night, for it was the anniversary
of her sister's anguish and death. Many a softening influence had
crept into that frozen nature, with the young persons who brought
their joys and their sorrows beneath her roof, and now came the solemn
breaking up of her heart. She learned the true method of atonement in
the stillness of that nightwatch. It was the regeneration of a soul.
When the day broke, she stole up to Isabel Chester's room, and kissed
her pallid cheeks as she slept. "Be comforted," she said, smiling down
upon the unconscious face; "be comforted, for the day of your joy is
at hand."