"You and Alexander seem to be getting on finely."
"Oh, yes," said she,--"of course."
"I hope you always will," he continued, with a tragic vehemence of wish.
"Thank you, Silas; we shall, I think," she replied, with such an excess
of gratitude, so he deemed it, that the poor fellow attempted no more.
All that day he thought and thought; and at night Silas Swift looked
back from a corner of High Street at a building over whose door a flag
was waving, and said to himself, "I was born as free as others,"--and he
walked on silently, with himself for his dismal company.
It made no difference to him where he went, which path he took, he said;
but he passed Salt Lane, and crossed Long Wharf, and walked down the
beach, under the old sycamores, and wandered on. There was another
seaport-town some miles down the coast; he was walking in that
direction, but he did not acknowledge a purpose.
How splendid was the night! a night of magnificent constellations, of
flashing auroras, of many meteors; and he saw the comet, which he and
Columbia had looked for since its first announcement. But the heavens
might as well have been "hung in black." Chilled by more than the wintry
wind, he went his way. When the sun rose, he was still wandering on.
Light, heaven-deep, shone on land and sea. He sat down to rest, and to
order himself for future movements: for the town was now in sight; in an
hour or two he should come to the busy streets; already he could discern
the lofty spires, and the tall masts of the great vessels.
Yes,--he would find a situation on one of those ships. He would go out
as supercargo to China, or India, or Spain. He could get a situation
without difficulty, for he was well known in the town. Then, after he
had sailed, word could go back to his father and mother.
So, then, he should go to sea? Of course. It was now arranged,--to
foreign ports. He should see foreign people, and visit ancient places.
The strange would have advantage over the familiar. He did not desire
death. He had not that weakness, not being worn out by sickness, and
having never used this life as abusing it. The friends he loved were
living; his affections were strong. No, he could not think of death
without a shudder, for Love was on the earth. Yet--what had he to do
with Love? By her own election _she_ was no more to him than a hundred
others as good and fair might prove. Must he be so weak as to go through
life regretting? Not he, Silas Swift!
By-and-by he rose up from the sand. I think his face must have
resembled, then, the face of Elijah when the Lord inquied, with the
still, small voice, "What dost thou here?" For, as he arose, he looked
back on the waste by which he came,--his face turned homewards. Ay, and
his steps likewise; and not with indecision, as though fearing when he
surrendered to himself and One mightier.
Do they tell us filial reverence is a forgotten virtue? Silas was going
home. Child, do you call him coward? Perhaps he was that,--no, not even
yesterday, for the yesterday was capable of to-day! Do you, then, say,
with a doubting smile, "Love! Love!" Yea, verily, Love! The mount of God
takes up your word, so feebly and falsely spoken, and the echo is like
thunder whose fire can destroy. Yea, _Love_! Two old faces, wrinkled,
anxious. Eyes not so bright as once, dimmer to-day for tears; hair
sprinkled with gray. Prayers broken by sobbing; trust disappointed;
confidence violated. Ay, hearts that loved him first, and would surely
love him always. Smiles first recognized of all he has ever seen, that
could not change to frowns. They call him with tremulous tenderness, and
the heart of Silas breaks with hearing. Bleed, poor heart, but let not
those old hearts bleed!
The music of the inviting waves is not so soft as the sound of those
feeble voices,--the freedom they promise is not powerful to tempt him;
behold the arms that hang powerless yonder, and the hearts whose tides
are more wondrous than those of the sea! The halcyon days shall never
break through eternal ages on him, if he will walk on now in darkness.
"I will arise and go to my father."
The everlasting gates lift up their heads. The full-grown man reenters.
Love drove him forth with stripes; there may have been who rejoiced and
thought of fainting Ishmael. But against no man should this youth's hand
be lifted. No son of the bond-woman he. Isaac, not Ishmael.
Love drove him forth with stripes; but a holier drew him home. By his
past life's integrity the man was bound,--by the honor of a good name,
that waited to be justified.
He went home to ask forgiveness of LOVE. Not of Youth and Beauty, but of
Age and Trust.
He went home to souls which had proved themselves, each one, before the
divine messenger in the hours of his absence.
Back, once more to break on a little circle gathered in an obscure
corner of the town, talking his case over with distressed perplexity: to
women disturbed with fears incredible to them,--to three, save one who
did not seem distracted, and who looked around her with something like
triumph, as a prophet might gaze when his word was verified. She was the
youngest and the fairest of them all. How many times she had said, "He
can explain. He will come soon. How can you fear for Silas?"
He went back to the dead silence that fell with his appearing. His
mother was first to break it. With a faltering voice she spoke, but with
the authority of maternal love and faith,--through sobs, but with
authority.
"There! there! I told you! Now speak, Silas! quick! Did you find
him?"--and, half fainting, she threw her arms about her son.
The father would fain speak with severity, but he failed in the attempt;
he could no longer harbor his cruel fear, with the lad there before him.
"Silas, what do you mean, Sir? Here's Mr. Dexter's shop broke in, and
his till robbed, and you off, and the Devil to pay! But Columby, there,
said you had gone in search of the thief. Oh! oh!"
"Of course!" cried Dexter, the words rolling out as a cloud of smoke
from a conspicuous safety-valve,--"I knew 't was all right. I'd expect
the world to bu'st up as quick as for you to cheat us. I said it, I did,
fifty times." And there Dexter choked, and was silent.
Ay, time for him to return! "Glory to God!" said Silas, and he looked
around him, scanning every face, as a man might scan the faces of
accusers.
More than any said or thought he saw in Columbia's eyes. Silent, pale,
she merely sat gazing at him steadfastly. Oh, powers of speech,
surrender! It was a gaze that made the young fellow turn from all, that
the spasm of joy might pass, and leave him breath to declare himself
like a man in the hearing of those present.
The words he spoke might not disturb the dreaming halcyon, but they must
have brought angels nearer,--so near that not one there in the little
back-room could escape the heavenly atmosphere.
Was Love born in a stable? Is Nature changed since, that a little room
back of a shop should not be heaven itself, and the inmates kings and
priests, though without the ermine and ephod?
Shall we sing the halcyon's song?