than my love for Mary; I never pressed my lips to hers. So I could be
near her, hear her voice, and live in the sunshine of herself, I was
content. I went out from her society a better man each time. I would
go any distance, endure any exposure, so I might but feel the blessed
light of her eyes come into mine. I never joked with her as I might
others. I never used her name before any person. I never wrote it
carelessly. Everything pertaining to her was sacred as the heaven which
I sometime expected to enter. My highest thought was her happiness,
not mine. My ambition, my hopes, my prayers, all centred in that one
desire to walk beside her in the beautiful journey of life. When any
person coupled my name with hers in pleasantry I felt as though they
had touched a name that was hallowed, and changed the subject. I longed
to be constantly in her presence, yet dared not trouble her too much;
so between desire to hover near and fear of being an annoyance rather
than a joy my soul was constantly harassed. I had often pledged myself
to ask her to accept my homage, and though I had means and social
position and education, everything seemed unworthy of her. What if she
refused to be my guide forever? Life then would be worse than useless;
so, hoping and praying, I waited, and my worship grew as the months
went by. Every flower that she loved I pressed and laid away in the
books I had seen her read. Every kindly word she gave me made me joyful
for days. Every touch of her hand thrilled me with delight, and I lived
over the bliss a thousand times in memory. Once, I remember, when I
gave her a picture of myself, and she looked at it long and earnestly I
thought, and her dark hair touched mine, I was too happy for words to
express it.
“Other young men called upon her, and, like myself, showed her the
deference that belonged to a pure, beautiful woman, girl though she
was in years. Among them was a noble young man, the perfection of
manly grace and the embodiment of manly virtues. Alfred Trumbull was
a preacher, a genial, earnest, eloquent young man, as spiritual as
herself. I had met him there and had learned to love him. He admired
her, we all plainly saw, but she treated him as the rest, with a
cordiality that was blended with reserve and that kept us all removed
just far enough to worship her.
“Weeks went by. I was growing wretched. I was coming to know how
entirely dependent I was upon her for happiness. If a day passed by and
I did not see her, it was a lost day. I must tell her and have her all
my own. Oh, Marsh, those were glad days, after all,—when I could see
her, if no more,—but God and time shape things differently from what
we will!
“It was just such a night as this. I remember her so plainly—how I
stood by the gate and watched the shadows of the pines flicker on the
walk, and, man though I was, trembled to take the final step. She met
me so cordially, more than was her wont, I thought. She was so lovely
on that calm summer evening; so doubly frail, too, that my solicitude
for her kept pace with my love. She was alone. With no sound save the
rustle of the pines, and no one to hear save God and her, I told her
all my heart. I told her how I worshipped her with all the strength of
my being. I told her how I would struggle to the end of life to make
myself worthy of her.
“She waited a full minute before she answered me. In that minute it
seemed as though my reason would give way. She was so white with the
moonlight streaming in upon her, as she put her hand in mine and said,
with an irrepressible tenderness, ‘Burton’ (and nobody else spoke my
name as she did), ‘Burton, I have promised to help Alfred Trumbull win
souls.’
At first I was dumb; then I buried my face in my hands and groaned
aloud, then I wept like a child that cannot be comforted. Oh, Marsh,
there is nothing that bends a man’s soul like that! I felt alone—no
support, no guide, no love, no hope. Life was worse than a blank; a
dull, dread certainty of sorrow. It would be torture to die if death
were to remove me from her sight—it would be torture to live and never
have her love or presence. Those were bitter days, full of the depths
of sorrow. Those days made me grow old a score of years. I was never
young afterward.
“At last, when I could command myself, I begged to be allowed to love
her till my life went out. If any one could win her instead of me, I
was thankful to have it one so good as Alfred Trumbull. I conquered
self. I found my highest happiness was still to see her happy.
Sometimes when I visited her the old love, the yearning to claim her
for myself, would sweep over me till my head grew dizzy and my heart
sank within me, and then my better nature said: ‘Rejoice in her joy,
and be content only to love.’
“I came at last to be resigned—yes, happy in my idol-worship. From
her I could hope for nothing but kindness and tenderness, but I could
never love any other. The time drew near when she and Alfred Trumbull
were to commence their grand life-work. Suddenly his health failed. She
went to him—she cared for him day and night with the same intensity of
love that I had given her. It could not arrest disease. He longed for
returning health, because they would have been so happy and congenial
in their love and work; but one day in early spring he died in her
arms, and was laid away among the first flowers, to rest from his
labors.
“I never saw a life so blighted as hers. Her whole heart lay beside his
in the grave. She lost all interest in life. She grew quiet and sad and
more ethereal. She never mentioned his name, but we knew she longed
to live with him, even though she must pass through the valley of the
shadow.
“Against all my struggling I found my old desire to claim her coming
back into my soul. I showed her all the delicate yet unobtrusive
kindness possible. Her very sorrow made her unspeakably dear.
“After Alfred had been in heaven a year, and knowing that she loved no
one else, I told her again the old burden of my heart. She seemed moved
to pity as she laid her hand on mine, just as she did once before, and
said in tones I shall never forget, ‘Burton, I am Alfred’s!’
“I lived over again the old days of torture, and again conquered self
to minister to her happiness. I should have died if I could not have
loved her, and I was almost happy that she did not deny me this. I
gathered beautiful and rare things for her, and in all ways made her
life less sad, if possible. I must have her to care for and love and
serve, and again I laid my affection at her feet. With the same sad
smile she had borne for three years, she said, looking down at the
mourning robes she had worn for him, ‘Burton, I am Alfred’s still; but
if I can make your life any happier I will be your wife!’
“Those words staggered me. I had not dared hope for this, though I
prayed for it. Joy seemed to take away my senses; and seeing me so
beside myself the old look came back once or twice to her face. I
was as one who, shipwrecked in mid-ocean, after clinging for days
to a floating plank, at last picked up by a stray ship, is helpless
through joy and gratitude. I was more dead than alive with my wealth of
happiness. Mary and I were made one. Marsh, how I live over again those
beautiful days. I used to look at your pretty wife beside you as we
journeyed, and think of my precious Mary.
“My cup of joy was full to the brim. She accepted my homage, and was
grateful. I spared no pains to make her life complete. To have her in
my home, to have the blessed influence of her presence evening after
evening, was the crowning joy of a man who had loved for years in
silence and unreturned affection.
“I was so entranced with my joy that another summer had come round
again before I began to realize that she was fully mine, and then the
next winter flew so rapidly, and a little son came into the household.
We were both very grateful—I all the more because I thought it might
fill Mary’s heart something as the old love had done.
“I watched her cheeks grow brighter as she fondled the boy, whom I
named Alfred for her sake. They were so beautiful in my home, mother
and child. I worked with redoubled energy, and well nigh forgot that
there was any heaven beyond, my joy was so complete below.
“Spring came and I gathered wild flowers to wreathe the brows of both.
One day, while absent from home, a message came for me that my wife was
ill and desired me to come. I grew palsied with fear. I hastened home
to find her just able to speak to me. She had had a violent hæmorrhage
of the lungs. I was wild. I knelt before her, and clasping her in my
arms begged her not to die, but live for my sake and her boy’s. She put
her white arm about my neck, drawing me to his little face and hers, as
she said faintly, ‘Burton, keep the darling child, who is ours,—but
I—I am Alfred’s!’—and was gone.
“For months I did not know what happened. All was a blank. My boy
died before I came to myself, and I was alone again in the world.
I travelled till my health permitted work, and then I labored
incessantly.
“I love Mary now as I loved her so long ago. No other can ever fill her
place. She is as much mine to love as ever. All this has whitened my
hair, you see. I must lock up my heart again, lest the world look in
upon my idols. Do you see that I have reason for not loving again?”
Marsh’s head was bowed. He loved Cone as a brother, and he had suffered
all this and loved on, and was brave and strong.
“Let us take my little girl and go back to yours and Mary’s home,” said
Marsh.
“Yes, and Mary has an only sister strangely like your wife. You need
another heart to lean upon. Your nature is different from mine.”
Not many years after Marsh had taken the sister to be a mother to his
pretty daughter, and Burton Cone, leaving his property to this little
one, had been laid to rest by the side of Mary.
UNSUITABLE.
“IT NEVER will happen,” said Jane Holcomb to her sister Nancy, as
they sat together before an open fire. “Justus is too bright a young
man to fall in love with a woman nearly twice his own age. Think of
our educating our only nephew at a most expensive college, having all
our hopes centred in his future prominence, and then have him make an
unsuitable marriage!”
“But we have never seen this woman he seems to love,” said Nancy
quietly. “Perhaps we should like her. I think she must have some
admirable qualities, or Justus would never be fond of her. Besides, he
is a favorite with ladies, and could marry surely a pretty girl of his
own age.”
Jane and Nancy Holcomb were sisters, well-to-do in the world, very
necessary to each other, but not especially necessary to the rest of
the community. Nancy was half an invalid, who repaid the care of her
sister with a nearly perfect affection. She would have made a lovely
wife had she been married some years before.
It was fortunate that Jane had never married. Her continual worry lest
a particle of dust adhere to table or chair, her constant picking up
of book, or shawl, or gloves, if anything were left for a moment out
of place, would have made her an annoyance to any man who wished to
enjoy his home. If a picture had been painted of Jane Holcomb, it would
not have been complete without a broom in her hand. There was one
good servant in the house who kept things reasonably neat, but Jane
was forever cleaning. If she had married, and had been the mother of
children, probably she would have been less fussy, and a pleasanter
woman to live with.
Both women idolized the bright nephew, Justus, who loved his aunts in
the abstract, but usually kept as far away from Aunt Jane’s broom as
possible.
He was a handsome young fellow, cheery, cordial, earnest, sympathetic,
and withal possessed of excellent common-sense. He had just graduated
from a medical school, and was coming home for a visit to the aunts.
Jane swept and dusted more than ever, till the carpets and furniture
would have protested, if that were possible. Nancy grew fresher and
better in health from the expected arrival.
Finally the young man came, and was kissed and petted as young men
are apt to be by women older than themselves. Aunt Jane looked him
over from head to foot. Yes, he was clean and attractive, even to her
practised eye.
“Now, Justus,” she said, as they were sitting by the open fire after
supper, “tell your aunts about the love matter which we hear of. I
think this lady is a little older than you.” Jane controlled herself
and became diplomatic, because a young man cannot usually be driven,
but must be gently led.
“If you mean Miss Watterson—yes, she is a charming woman. She is
thirty-five, just ten years older than I. I confess she attracts me
more than any of the girls of my own age. She is not handsome, but very
intelligent, has read widely, and is a noble woman.”
“But you surely would be the subject of much remark in society if you
married her. And we are so proud of you, Justus, we naturally wish you
could marry rich, and some one who could help you in your profession.
You know a woman can help to make her husband popular or unpopular.”
“I know it, aunt; but, after all, I need the right kind of
companionship when I marry. I have not decided the matter yet, and
perhaps I shall grow wiser.”
“You must not forget also, Justus, that as a rule a woman grows old
faster than a man, or she used to. I cannot say that she does exactly
in this new age, when American men are killing themselves in business,
and the women are living in luxury. But when you are forty-five and in
your prime, your wife will be fifty-five; and the disparity will be
more apparent then than now. Besides, you will see so many attractive
faces in your profession.”
“That would not influence me, Aunt Jane. If I loved her once, I should
hope to be man enough to love her always. But I will wait awhile before
I”—
“That is right,” said Nancy; “you know we shall make you our heir, that
is, sister Jane will, and we want you to be a leader socially and in
your profession. You know men have such a wide sphere of influence. All
our lives centre in you.”
“Don’t build too much upon my future, Aunt Nancy, though I will do my
best.”
“Do you correspond with Miss Watterson?” said Jane half hesitatingly.
“We have done so, but we have discontinued it, as I am sure she thinks
the difference in our ages a possible obstacle to our future happiness.”
“Well, she is a wise woman not to let a boy be captured even in accord
with his own wishes. Why it is that young men so often like older women
I’m sure I can’t tell.”
“Because they are natural and not simpering, feel an interest and dare
to show it, are vivacious without flippancy, and usually well-enough
read to be companionable to an educated man. You know, Aunt Jane, a
man doesn’t want simply a pretty face to look on forever. He must have
something besides a vine nowadays.”
“Well, tell us about Miss Watterson?”
“She has travelled abroad, plays delightfully, loves to do charitable
work, has tact enough to know when to talk and when to be silent, likes
to look well, but does not spend all her time in dress as do some whom
I know, whether their fathers can afford it or not, and doesn’t seem
to make any especial effort to win my affections, but is thoroughly
appreciative.”
“Why hasn’t she married before this? Been in love and been
disappointed, I warrant.”
“That I don’t know. She has never told me. I suppose, like yourself,
Aunt Jane, she hasn’t found a man good enough.”
Jane Holcomb smiled in a pleased kind of way at this delicate allusion
to her superior judgment.
“Well, Justus, I wish you would promise me that you won’t write to Miss
Watterson for one year, and by that time you will probably have found
some one more suitable to your age.”
“I promise, but I shall be so busy with my profession that I fear no
other lady will command my time.”
When Justus departed Jane kissed him with not only maternal fondness,
but with that woman’s pride that feels she has for once circumvented an
attractive woman, doubtless in love with a bright and handsome nephew.
“One year will fix matters,” she said to Nancy, after Justus had gone.
“Few loves can bear such a silence as that.”
“I fear Justus will be lonesome,” said Nancy, who still had a little
longing in her heart that the youth might have the woman of his
choice, even though “unsuitable,” as Jane had said. There was a touch
of romance in Nancy that would have made her an interesting woman if
circumstances had been permitted to develop her.
Long letters came from Justus. He was busy and successful. Jane was
happy, but Nancy thought she detected a depressed feeling in the
letters. He was lonely, of course. Who can enjoy the companionship of
a cultivated and womanly woman and not miss it? Who that has had one
sincere affection, especially if it have something of reverence in it,
can readily supply its place with another?
One morning, after a year had passed, a square envelope came, and
a full, kind, but decided letter. It contained cards announcing the
marriage of Justus Holcomb and Miss Watterson. What society would say,
what even his good aunts would say, had been weighed in the balance and
been found wanting.
Jane was sadly disappointed. “Another instance of a woman’s power,” she
said. “I never knew a woman that couldn’t do what she set out to do,
if a man’s heart were at stake. I feared it all the while. Men will do
such foolish things. I fear Justus will regret, but he is so manly he
will never say so.”
“But she may be better for him than a fly-away-girl,” Nancy suggested.
“I hope it will turn out well. We must be kind to them and write them
to come to see us.”
Jane set the house in order, and swept and dusted, and made herself
ready for the inevitable. When the visit was made and Justus was found
to be happy with a wife ten years his senior, Jane was in a measure
reconciled. “It could have been worse,” she said to Nancy. “She seems a
very clever person.”
“I like her,” said Nancy; “she has a very sweet smile, and this makes
even a plain face attractive. I don’t believe she tried to get him, for
he seems more in love than she does.”
“Ah! that’s a woman’s skill in covering,” said Jane. “But men will be
foolish, I suppose, till the end of the world.”
PLAYING WITH HEARTS.
SEVERAL instances, showing the results of playing with hearts, have
come under my notice, which have emphasized in my mind the danger of
being careless in such matters.
That it is natural for young men to admire and love young women goes
without saying. As well argue that we must not love flowers and music
and sunlight, as to say one must not love the beauty and grace and
sweetness of young womanhood.
A home to many if not most young men means all that is restful and
delightful; a place for comfort after the toil of the day; a place of
companionship with some one whose interests are identical with his,
and whose tastes are congenial to his own. He does not wait, as does a
woman, to see if love be reciprocal. He loves, and hopes for and asks
for a return.
The girl is apt to be less impulsive. She, or her mother for her, is
perhaps worldly wise, and considers well whether the man can support
her, and whether he will probably make her happy. She accepts the
attentions of one or a dozen, and decides among them. This is right
according to our modern society, but she too often forgets whether she
is giving pain needlessly.
It is too much the fashion to argue that men are not deeply touched in
such matters; that, full of business as they are, a refusal is easily
borne, and another love takes the place.
True, we read in the daily press quite often of a suicide resulting
from a rebuff or a broken promise, but we seem to forget, unless
perchance it touches our own home circle, and then the mother’s heart
breaks for her tenderly reared son or daughter.
I believe the history of the world shows that men love deeply, and
with an affection as lasting as that of women. Who can ever forget
the undying affection of Sir Walter Scott for fair young Margaret? He
met and loved her at nineteen, and for six years worked at his law
drudgery, looking forward to a happy union with her. He said to a
friend, “It was a proud night with me when I first found that a pretty
young woman could think it worth while to sit and talk with me hour
after hour, in a corner of the ball-room, while all the world were
capering in our view.”
As his first year’s practice brought him but $125, his second $290, and
his third $420, the young lady counselled waiting for better days.
Two years later Margaret was married to the eldest son of a baronet,
afterward Sir William Forbes, and died thirteen years after her
marriage. The cause of her change of mind is not known.
At first Scott felt that he had been wronged, but this feeling against
Margaret soon subsided, and was replaced by an unchangeable affection.
She became the heroine of “Rokeby” and of “Woodstock.”
Thirty years later, when Europe and America were filled with praise of
Scott, he met the mother of his early love. He writes in his diary,
after the meeting:
“I went to make a visit, and fairly softened myself like an old fool,
with recalling old stories till I was fit for nothing but shedding
tears and repeating verses for the whole night. This is sad work. The
very grave gives up its dead, and time rolls back thirty years to add
to my perplexities. I don’t care. I begin to grow case-hardened, and,
like a stag turning at bay, my naturally good temper grows fierce
and dangerous. Yet what a romance to tell, and told, I fear, it will
one day be. And then my three years of dreaming and my two years of
awakening will be chronicled, doubtless. But the dead will feel no
pain.”
When he visited St. Andrews he recalled how thirty-four years before he
had carved her name in runic characters on the turf beside the castle
gate, and asked himself why, at fifty-six, that name “should still
agitate his heart.”
I never read of stern and fearless Andrew Jackson without recalling
his devoted love for Rachel Robards. With the world he was thought to
be domineering and harsh, and was often profane; but with her he was
patient, gentle, and deferential. Having no children, they adopted her
nephew when but a few days old. When Jackson conquered at New Orleans
and young ladies strewed flowers along the path of the hero, to have
the commendation of Rachel was more than that of all the world beside.
When he was elected President she said, “Well, for Mr. Jackson’s sake I
am glad; for my own part I never wished it.”
Earnest in her religious convictions, he built a small brick church for
her in the Hermitage grounds, that she might gather her neighbors and
servants about her for worship. Mrs. Jackson died suddenly just after
her husband’s election to the presidency. He could not believe that she
was dead. When they brought a table to lay her body upon, “Spread four
blankets upon it. If she does come to, she will lie so hard upon the
table.”
All night long he sat beside the form of his beloved Rachel, often
feeling of her heart and pulse. In the morning he was wholly
inconsolable, and when he found that she was really dead the body could
scarcely be forced from his arms. He prepared a tomb for her like an
open summer-house, and buried her under the white dome supported by
marble pillars.
While Jackson lived he wore her miniature constantly about his neck,
and every night laid it open beside her prayer-book at his bedside. Her
face was the last thing upon which his eyes rested before he slept,
and the first thing upon which his eyes opened in the morning, through
those eight years at the White House. He made his will bequeathing all
his property to his adopted son, because, said he, “If she were alive
she would wish him to have it all, and to me her wish is law.”
Two days before he died he said, “Heaven will be no heaven to me if I
do not find my wife there.” He used to say, “All I have achieved—fame,
power, everything—would I exchange, if she could be restored to me for
a moment.”
Washington Irving cherished forever the memory of Matilda Hoffman, who
died at the age of seventeen. He could never hear her name mentioned
afterward. After his death a package was found marked “Private Mems.”
In a faded manuscript of his own writing were a lovely miniature of
Matilda and a braid of fair hair. For years Irving kept her Bible and
prayer-book under his pillow, and to the end of his life these were
always carried with him on his journeys.
In the faded manuscript one reads:
“The ills that I have undergone in this life have been dealt out to me
drop by drop, and I have tasted all their bitterness. I saw her fade
rapidly away: beautiful and more beautiful, and most angelical to the
last.
“I seemed to care for nothing; the world was a blank to me. I abandoned
all thought of the law. I went into the country, but could not bear
the solitude, yet could not endure society.... I seemed to drift
about without aim or object, at the mercy of every breeze; my heart
wanted anchorage. I was naturally susceptible, and tried to form other
attachments, but my heart would not hold on; it would continually recur
to what it had lost; and whenever there was a pause in the hurry of
novelty and excitement I would sink into dismal dejection. For years
I could not talk on the subject of this hopeless regret; I could not
even mention her name; but her image was continually before me, and I
dreamed of her incessantly.”
“For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory’s mould,
And will not cool
Until the heart itself is cold
In Lethe’s pool.”
The memory of Ann Rutledge never faded from the heart of Abraham
Lincoln. Years after her death he was heard to say, “My heart lies
buried in the grave of that girl. I can never be reconciled to have the
snow, rains, and storms beat upon her grave.”
Gruff Samuel Johnson worked in his garret, a most inconvenient room,
after his “Tetty” died, because, said he, “In that room I never saw
Mrs. Johnson.” Her wedding-ring was placed in a little box, and
tenderly kept till his death.