“I would not tell you till all was sure; now, listen. I wrote a
story, Jamie,--a story of our lives, weaving in few fancies of my
own and leaving you unchanged,--the little counsellor and good angel
of the ambitious man's hard life. I painted no fictitious sorrows.
What I had seen and keenly felt I could truly tell,--your cheerful
patience, Bess's faithful love, my struggles, hopes, and fears. This
book, unlike the others, was not rejected; for the simple truth,
told by an earnest pen, touched and interested. It was accepted, and
has been kindly welcomed, thanks to you, Jamie; for many buy it to
learn more of you, to weep and smile over artless words of yours,
and forget their pity in their reverence and love for the child who
taught the man to be, not what he is, but what, with God's help, he
will yet become.”
“They are very kind, and so are you, Walter, and I shall be proud to
have you rich and great, though I may not be here to see it.”
“You will, Jamie, you must; for it will be nothing without you;” and
as he spoke, the young man held the thin hand closer in his own and
looked more tenderly into the face upon his arm.
The boy's eyes shone with a feverish light, a scarlet flush burned
on his hollow cheek, and the breath came slowly from his parted
lips, but over his whole countenance there lay a beautiful serenity
which filled his friend with hope and fear.
“Walter bid Bess put away that tiresome work; she has sat at it all
day long, never stirring but to wait on me;” and as he spoke, a
troubled look flitted across the boy's calm face.
“I shall soon be done, Jamie, and I must not think of rest till
then, for there is neither food nor fuel for the morrow. Sleep,
yourself, dear, and dream of pleasant things; I am not very tired.”
And Bess bent closer to her work, trying to sing a little song, that
they might not guess how near the tears were to her aching eyes.
From beneath his pillow Jamie drew a bit of bread, whispering to his
friend as he displayed it,--
“Give it to Bess; I saved it for her till you came, for she will not
take it from me, and she has eaten nothing all this day.”
“And you, Jamie?” asked Walter, struck by the sharpened features of
the boy, and the hungry look which for a moment glistened in his
eye.
“I don't need much, you know, for I don't work like Bess; but yet
she gives me all. Oh, how can I bear to see her working so for me,
and I lying idle here!”
As he spoke, Jamie clasped his hands before his face, and through
his slender fingers streamed such tears as children seldom shed.
It was so rare a thing for him to weep that it filled Walter with
dismay and a keener sense of his own powerlessness. Ho could bear
any privation for himself alone, but he could not see them suffer.
He had nothing to offer them; for though there was seeming wealth in
store for him, he was now miserably poor. He stood a moment, looking
from brother to sister, both so dear to him, and both so plainly
showing how hard a struggle life had been to them.
With a bitter exclamation, the young man turned away and went out
into the night, muttering to himself,--
“They shall not suffer; I will beg or steal first.”
And with some vague purpose stirring within him, he went swiftly on
until he reached a great thoroughfare, nearly deserted now, but
echoing occasionally to a quick step as some one hurried home to his
warm fireside.
“A little money, sir, for a sick child and a starving woman;” and
with outstretched hand Walter arrested an old man. But he only
wrapped his furs still closer and passed on, saying sternly,--
“I have nothing for vagrants. Go to work, young man.”
A woman poorly clad in widow's weeds passed at that moment, and, as
the beggar fell back from the rich man's path, she dropped a bit of
silver in his hand, saying with true womanly compassion,--
“Heaven help you! it is all I have to give.”
“I'll beg no more,” muttered Walter, as he turned away burning with
shame and indignation; “I'll _take_ from the rich what the poor so
freely _give._ God pardon me; I see no other way, and they must not
starve.”
With a vague sense of guilt already upon him, he stole into a more
unfrequented street and slunk into the shadow of a doorway to wait
for coming steps and nerve himself for his first evil deed.
Glancing up to chide the moonlight for betraying him, he started;
for there, above the snow-clad roofs, rose the cross upon the tower.
Hastily he averted his eyes, as if they had rested on the mild,
reproachful countenance of a friend.
Far up in the wintry sky the bright symbol shone, and from it seemed
to fall a radiance, warmer than the moonlight, clearer than the
starlight, showing to that tempted heart the darkness of the yet
uncommitted wrong.
That familiar sight recalled the past; he thought of Jamie, and
seemed to hear again the childish words, uttered long ago, “God will
remember us.”
Steps came and went along the lonely street, but the dark figure in
the shadow never stirred, only stood there with bent head, accepting
the silent rebuke that shone down upon it, and murmuring, softly,--
“God remember little Jamie, and forgive me that my love for him led
me astray.”
As Walter raised his hand to dash away the drops that rose at the
memory of the boy, his eye fell on the ring he always wore for his
dead mother's sake. He had hoped to see it one day on Bess's hand,
but now a generous thought banished all others and with the energy
of an honest purpose be hastened to sell the ring, purchase a little
food and fuel, and borrowing a warm covering of a kindly neighbor,
he went back to dispense these comforts with a satisfaction he had
little thought to feel.
The one lamp burned low; a few dying embers lay upon the earth, and
no sound broke the silence but the steady rustle of Bess's needle,
and the echo of Jamie's hollow cough.
“Wrap it around Bess; she has given me her cloak, and needs it more
than I,--these coverings do very well;” and as he spoke, Jamie put
away the blanket Walter offered, and suppressing a shiver, hid his
purple hands beneath the old, thin cloak.
“Here is bread, Jamie; eat for Heaven's sake, no need to save it
now;” and Walter pressed it on the boy, but he only took a little,
saying he had not much need of food and loved to see them eat far
better.
So in the cheery blaze of the rekindled fire, Bess and Walter broke
their long fast, and never saw how eagerly Jamie gathered up the
scattered crumbs, nor heard him murmur softly, as he watched them
with loving eyes,--
“There will be no cold nor hunger up in heaven, but enough for
all,--enough for all.”
“Walter, you'll be kind to Bess when I am not here?” he whispered
earnestly, as his friend came to draw his bed within the ruddy
circle of the firelight gleaming on the floor.
“I will, Jamie, kinder than a brother,” was the quick reply. “But
why ask me that with such a wistful face?”
The boy did not answer, but turned on his pillow and kissed his
sister's shadow as it flitted by.
Gray dawn was in the sky before they spoke again. Bess slept the
deep, dreamless sleep of utter weariness, her head pillowed on her
arms. Walter sat beside the bed, lost in sweet and bitter musings,
silent and motionless, fancying the boy slept. But a low voice broke
the silence, whispering feebly.
“Walter, will you take me in your strong arms and lay me on my
little couch beside the window? I should love to see the cross
again, and it is nearly day.”
So light, so very light, the burden seemed, Walter turned his face
aside lest the boy should see the sorrowful emotion painted there,
and with a close embrace he laid him tenderly down to watch the
first ray climbing up the old gray tower.
“The frost lies so thickly on the window-panes that you cannot see
it, even when the light comes, Jamie,” said his friend, vainly
trying to gratify the boy's wish.
“The sun will melt it soon, and I can wait,--I can wait, Walter;
it's but a little while;” and Jamie, with a patient smile, turned
his face to the dim window and lay silent.
Higher and higher crept the sunshine till it shone through the
frostwork on the boy's bright head; his bird awoke and carolled
blithely, but he never stirred.
“Asleep at last, poor, tired little Jamie; I'll not wake him till
the day is warmer;” and Walter, folding the coverings closer over
the quiet figure, sat beside it, waiting till it should wake.
“Jamie dear, look up, and see how beautifully your last rose has
blossomed in the night when least we looked for it;” and Bess came
smiling in with the one white rose, so fragrant but so frail.
Jamie did not turn to greet her, for all frost had melted from the
boy's life now; another flower had blossomed in the early dawn, and
though the patient face upon the pillow was bathed in sunshine,
little Jamie was not there to see it gleaming on the cross. God had
remembered him.
Spring showers had made the small mound green, and scattered flowers
in the churchyard. Sister Bess sat in the silent room alone, working
still, but pausing often to wipe away the tears that fell upon a
letter on her knee.
Steps came springing up the narrow stairs and Walter entered with a
beaming face, to show the first rich earnings of his pen, and ask
her to rest from her long labor in the shelter of his love.
“Dear Bess, what troubles you? Let me share your sorrow and try to
lighten it,” he cried with anxious tenderness, sitting beside her on
the little couch where Jamie fell asleep.
In the frank face smiling on her, the girl's innocent eyes read
nothing but the friendly interest of a brother, and remembering his
care and kindness, she forgot her womanly timidity in her great
longing for sympathy, and freely told him all.
Told him of the lover she left years ago to cling to Jamie, and how
this lover went across the sea hoping to increase his little fortune
that the helpless brother might be sheltered for love of her. How
misfortune followed him, and when she looked to welcome back a
prosperous man, there came a letter saying that all was lost and he
must begin the world anew and win a home to offer her before he
claimed the heart so faithful to him all these years.
“He writes so tenderly and bears his disappointment bravely for my
sake; but it is very hard to see our happiness deferred again when
such a little sum would give us to each other.”
As she ceased, Bess looked for comfort into the countenance of her
companion, never seeing through her tears how pale it was with
sudden grief, how stern with repressed emotion. She only saw the
friend whom Jamie loved and that tie drew her toward him as to an
elder brother to whom she turned for help, unconscious then how
great his own need was.
“I never knew of this before, Bess; you kept your secret well” he
said, trying to seem unchanged.
The color deepened in her cheek; but she answered simply, “I never
spoke of it, for words could do no good, and Jamie grieved silently
about it, for he thought it a great sacrifice, though I looked on it
as a sacred duty, and he often wearied himself to show in many
loving ways how freshly he remembered it. My grateful little Jamie.”
And her eyes wandered to the green tree-tops tossing in the wind,
whose shadows flickered pleasantly above the child.
“Let me think a little, Bess, before I counsel you. Keep a good
heart and rest assured that I will help you if I can,” said Walter,
trying to speak hopefully.
“But you come to tell me something; at least, I fancied I saw some
good tidings in your face just now. Forgive my selfish grief, and
see how gladly I will sympathize with any joy of yours.”
“It is nothing, Bess, another time will do as well,” he answered,
eager to be gone lest he should betray what must be kept most
closely now.
“It never will be told, Bess,--never in this world,” he sighed
bitterly as he went back to his own room which never in his darkest
hours had seemed so dreary; for now the bright hope of his life was
gone.
“I have it in my power to make them happy,” he mused as he sat
alone, “but I cannot do it, for in this separation lies my only
hope. He may die or may grow weary, and then to whom will Bess turn
for comfort but to me? I will work on, earn riches and a name, and
if that hour should come, then in her desolation I will offer all to
Bess and surely she will listen and accept. Yet it were a generous
thing to make her happiness at once, forgetful of my own. How shall
I bear to see her waiting patiently, while youth and hope are fading
slowly, and know that I might end her weary trial and join two
faithful hearts? Oh, Jamie, I wish to Heaven I were asleep with you,
freed from the temptations that beset me. It is so easy to perceive
the right, so hard to do it.”
The sound of that familiar name, uttered despairingly, aloud, fell
with a sweet and solemn music upon Walter's ear. A flood of tender
memories swept away the present, and brought back the past. He
thought of that short life, so full of pain and yet of patience, of
the sunny nature which no cloud could overshadow, and the simple
trust which was its strength and guide.
He thought of that last night and saw now with clearer eyes the
sacrifices and the trials silently borne for love of Bess.
The beautiful example of the child rebuked the passion of he man,
and through the magic of affection strengthened generous impulses
and banished selfish hopes.
“I promised to be kind to Bess, and with God's help I will keep my
vow. Teach me to bear my pain, to look for help where you found it,
little Jamie;” and as he spoke, the young man gazed up at the
shining cross, striving to see in it not merely an object of the
dead boy's love, but a symbol of consolation, hope, and faith.
“It is a noble thing to see an honest man cleave his own heart in
twain to fling away the baser part of it.”
These words came to Walter's mind and fixed the resolution wavering
there, and as his glance wandered from the gray tower to the
churchyard full of summer stillness, he said within himself,--
“This is the hardest struggle of my life, but I will conquer and
come out from the conflict master of myself at least, and like
Jamie, try to wait until the sunshine comes again, even if it only
shine upon me, dead like him.”
It was no light task to leave the airy castles built by love and
hope, and go back cheerfully to the solitude of a life whose only
happiness for a time was in the memory of the past. But through the
weeks that bore one lover home, the other struggled to subdue his
passion, and be as generous in his sorrow as he would have been in
his joy.
It was no easy conquest; but he won the hardest of all victories,
that of self, and found in the place of banished pride and
bitterness a patient strength, and the one desire to be indeed more
generous than a brother to gentle Bess. He had truly, “cleft his
heart in twain and flung away the baser part.”
A few days before the absent lover came, Walter went to Bess, and,
with a countenance whose pale serenity touched her deeply, he laid
his gift before her, saying,--
“I owe this all to Jamie; and the best use I can make of it is to
secure your happiness, as I promised him I'd try to do. Take it and
God bless you, Sister Bess.”
“And you, Walter, what will your future be if I take this and go
away to enjoy it as you would have me?” Bess asked, with an
earnestness that awoke his wonder.
“I shall work, Bess, and in that find content and consolation for
the loss of you and Jamie. Do not think of me; this money will do me
far more good in your hands than my own. Believe me it is best to be
so, therefore do not hesitate.”
Bess took it, for she had learned the cause of Walter's restless
wanderings and strange avoidance of herself of late, and she judged
wisely that the generous nature should be gratified, and the
hard-won victory rewarded by the full accomplishment of its
unselfish end. Few words expressed her joyful thanks, but from that
time Walter felt that he held as dear a place as Jamie in her
grateful heart, and was content.
Summer flowers were blooming when Bess went from the old home a
happy wife, leaving her faithful friend alone in the little room
where Jamie lived and died.
Years passed, and Walter's pen had won for him an honored name.
Poverty and care were no longer his companions; many homes were open
to him, many hearts would gladly welcome him, but he still lingered
in the gloomy house, a serious, solitary man, for his heart lay
beneath the daisies of a child's grave.
But his life was rich in noble aims and charitable deeds, and with
his strong nature softened by the sharp discipline of sorrow, and
sweetened by the presence of a generous love, he was content to
dwell alone with the memory of little Jamie, in the shadow of “the
cross upon the tower.”