Part 6

Burton Cone had never forgotten the scenes through which he had passed. Though some things had been laid away and sealed with the seal of silence for over a dozen years, they were fresh to him as though they had taken place that very morning. Perhaps he did not need sympathy as some need it; perhaps he did not wish to burden others with his feelings.

It seemed almost twilight in the room, the lights were turned down so low.

“Sit down, Marsh, till we talk of the past. You have wondered if there is anything back of this life you have known. Aye, much, very much! You have wondered if I ever loved, and why I did not love some one now, when I so reverence woman. Away back in New England, in a little town near a beautiful city on the Connecticut, is the home of my childhood. That is precious to me, though I have not seen it for years. Near it is a large brick house, painted white, with long rows of firs and pines leading to it. It looks like an old castle. In that home was a young girl who from her childhood was my ideal. We played together as children, we roamed through the woods and meadows, we read and sang and talked of things beyond our years, because her nature held me above myself. She was not beautiful to others, perchance; but to me her large dark eyes, high brow, and glossy hair, with her quiet, dignified manner, made her a queen. She never seemed to do wrong. She had to ask no one’s forgiveness. She never made mistakes. She had no need for regrets. Nobody thought to be rude or rough to Mary Fairchild, or in her presence. She was always calm, always genial and kind, always considerate. She never seemed like the rest of us. I fancied she had been sent from heaven to keep our earthly minds and tastes somewhat akin to theirs. I always feared she might at any time take her departure to the land where she seemed rightly to belong.

“She went away to receive her education, and I studied hard to make myself, if possible, some day worthy of her. Occasionally she wrote me, and those letters seemed to me of peculiar value. I read each one over and over again, till I knew every word and how every letter was made. The slightest allusion to friendship for me seemed a mine of joy, and I put the letter next my heart to read as often as I should get a little leisure. She never gave me encouragement that she loved me more than others, always treating us all in the same gracious, kindly way. I was naturally timid, and though I did not tell her I loved her my desire to be in her company, my extreme joy when I met her, my blushing cheeks and my glad eyes, must have told her over and over again that I idolized her. I was active, energetic, ardent, but I lacked her spirituality and finer qualities of soul. She revelled in all that was beautiful and artistic. I never expected that she could love me as I did her. I thought her nature too ethereal, but I hoped that I might sometime live in her presence and be guided by her blessed spirit in my daily life.

“Nothing could have been farther removed from coarseness or passion 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.