Part 7

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.

Michael Angelo’s devotion to Vittoria Colonna will be told, perhaps, even after the wonderful statues of Day and Night are lost or destroyed. “He bore such a love to her,” said his pupil Condivi “that I remember to have heard him say that he grieved at nothing so much as that when he went to see her pass from this life he had not kissed her brow or her face, as he kissed her hand. After her death he frequently stood trembling and as if insensible.”

All lovers of art know of Saskia, whose life was to Rembrandt like the transcendent light he threw over his pictures; whose death left him forever in the shadow of shadows.

If men give such affection as these men gave,—and tens of thousands do,—then the affection is worth the most careful consideration; accepted, if possible, with gratitude that one has been thought worthy of homage; refused, if necessary, with the utmost delicacy and kindness.

Young women sometimes, perhaps because of youth, do not realize the far-reaching influence of what the world is pleased to jest about as “love affairs.”

An acquaintance of mine, pretty, intelligent, and reared by a Christian mother, became engaged to two young men at the same time. One of course was refused, with, to him, bitter heartache. She married the other, led a wretched life with him, and finally was divorced.

Another received for years the attention of a worthy and wealthy young man. Another young man visited her, for whom she possibly had a preference. Both offered themselves to her, and both were accepted, she doubtless hoping to choose later the one who pleased her best. Both discovered her plan, were indignant, and left her to make other conquests.

These cases are far from isolated. I do not believe they arise from the heartlessness of women, but from lack of thought and care. A man can offer a woman nothing higher than a sincere love. While she need not assume that men who offer her attention wish to marry her, it is a mistake to keep one’s eyes shut, and open them only to find that a heart has been hurt temporarily, and perchance permanently. Good common-sense as well as principle are necessary in matters pertaining to hearts.

DUTY.

“JAMES, I hear you are getting interested in Martha Wenham!” said good old Mrs. Matthews, tremblingly, to her only son, as they sat by the fire one evening after he had returned from a hard day’s work.

He had been her only support for four years, ever since her kind husband died. His sister Nellie, sweet but fragile, had leaned upon his strong arm for help, for she was unable to support herself.

Mrs. Clayton, a neighbor, had been over telling James’s mother what she had heard about the young people: that they had been seen to walk very leisurely home from singing-schools and prayer-meetings, and that, at the last church picnic, he and Martha, regardless of all the others, had sauntered off to a cool, cosey nook, and were seemingly very happy and very much absorbed, as people are wont to be under such circumstances. Martha was a very excellent girl, the daughter of a well-to-do village merchant, would make one of the best of wives, and James would be fortunate to win her; but poor Mrs. Matthews saw herself and Nellie cast upon the world, for in case James married he could no more than support his wife and the little ones that would probably be born to them. He had been a faithful son, leaving school and books that he loved, to work with his hands and earn his bread. He had been able to pay their rent, get them a few neat clothes, and buy all necessary food.

Sometimes he seemed rather quiet, as though he longed again for the school days, that he might realize his ambition to be a prominent man in the world. When either mother or daughter caught a glimpse of any such feelings, they tried to make the home pleasanter for him. Mrs. Matthews baked things he liked, and Nellie took a little picture from her scantily furnished room to hang in his, or gathered a few flowers for his table.

No wonder the dependent mother spoke anxiously about his interest in Martha Wenham.

“Yes, I like her very much, mother. I think she is the noblest girl I ever saw!”

Mrs. Matthews trembled more and more. She wanted to ask him if he ever thought of marrying her, but she could not.

Finally, after long silence, James said, as though he had been weighing the thing in his own mind, “Do you think she would make me a good wife, mother?”

“I—I think she might, James, but what would your poor mother do?” and the tears gathered in her eyes. “I’m afraid I’m a burden, James! Don’t you wish there were no obstacles in the way? Oh, James, I wonder God arranged it so!” and the fond mother could have longed to be out of the way, that her boy’s happiness might be completed.

James Matthews’s big heart was full. He had never thought of leaving his mother, and, though he loved Martha, duty was first with him always; so he put his hard hands upon his mother’s gray head and kissed her, bidding her not to fear; that he should never leave her, and that she was better than all the Marthas in the world, and as for Nellie, he’d work his fingers off for her before any other girl should take her place.

That night there was a timid knock at Martha’s door, and James Matthews was cordially welcomed. Several times before all the commonplaces were talked of he tried to tell her his errand in coming, but his courage as often failed. Martha broke the ice for him when she said, “I think, James, that day spent at the picnic was the pleasantest of my life.” What could be more delightful than to hear from her own lips the very confession he had longed to hear—that his presence was a pleasure to her, that she perhaps in some measure returned his affection?

“It was a very happy one to me,” responded James. “I have often wondered if it gave you pleasure. Martha, perhaps you do not know that I have loved you for a long time, and perhaps it is wrong for me to tell you of it, seeing that I cannot marry anybody.”

“And why not?” said Martha, a blush spreading over her fair face and losing itself in her golden hair.

“Because my mother and sister are dependent upon me, and as long as they live—and I hope it may be many years—I shall take care of them. I could love you always without marriage, but that is the only bond that can keep you mine alone and forever. Others will be seeking one so good as you are. I could not ask you to be engaged, for you might wait for years before I was able to support a third in our home, and support you as nicely as I should wish to do. You have had too many comforts to receive poverty at my hands.”

“You know I am young, James, only seventeen, and I can wait a great many years for you. I love you very much, and I have a good home to wait in; so what matter, so long as we are near each other? I’ll wait until I’m an old lady, James, if need be.”

The noble girl had answered as her pure heart had prompted.

Many a man knows how rich, and happy, and satisfied James Matthews felt that night as he came home in the moonlight. How strong his arms felt for work, and how strong his good principles seemed!

He could do anything now for mother and sister—make any sacrifice; for did not one wait for him whose encouragement was more than money, to live with whom for one year even would recompense for a score of years of labor?

Mrs. Matthews and Nellie grew happier as they saw him so cheerful, and as his wages increased with his larger experience, and more of the comforts of life were obtained, Nellie, with less anxiety and more ease, grew better.

Two years had passed, and changes had come to Martha Wenham. Her father was dead, his property gone, and her health impaired by long and weary care of him. What was left for her but to claim the hand of him for whom she had waited these two years? Refusing all others, she had been true to him. Now came the time of trial to both.

Martha was helpless, and had nowhere to look but to him. His heart clung to her now more than ever, but who could support the two who seemed to be left providentially on his hands? Many an evening he passed with her, feeling every time as though the day of parting, if it must come to that, would be unbearable; finally he resolved to marry her, take her to his home, and do all in his power for the three. It could be only a scanty subsistence he could earn for them, and by taking another upon himself, would he not spoil the happiness of them all? He might have but one meal a day for himself, and he was willing; but what poor reward for the girl who had lost so many good places in life to share penury with him!

“James, I have a plan to propose to you, though you may not second it, and indeed I do not know if it be right or best,” said Martha to him one night. “William Stillson, you know, has loved me from the time we were children together, and has always been a warm friend to me, even after I refused him. In these days of anxiety and prospective want, he has offered me again himself and his lovely home. I respect him, James, but you have my heart and he knows it. All rests with you. Shall I marry him, and thus free you from what must necessarily be a burden?”

James could not answer, and when she put her cheek upon his and held his hand, he said, “Oh, Martha, I cannot give you up!”

“My will is yours,” she said, and kissed him good-night.

It troubled him after he came home. She might be so comfortable with William, so cramped with him. His duty was plain before him. He took a pen and paper and hastily wrote:

MY MARTHA: I release you! I know what is best for you! Marry William and be happy. There is no other course. I shall be happy because you are. My blessing go with you.

Your JAMES.

Four weeks after, Martha, a woman through her sufferings, and true to her womanhood in acting honestly, gave her hand to William Stillson, promising to be his faithful wife. James heard the words that separated them forever, and seemed to grow stronger for his duties at home. He never visited her, but when she bore a beautiful boy to her husband, he felt that he might love the child, and this wee one became his plaything for many a month, until they moved to a distant part of the country. Then, for the first time, though he missed the boy and the sweet face of the mother, he was no longer under restraint. He could have her in his thoughts better than in his sight.

Many a year went by quietly, even happily, to James, for we find our highest happiness in doing our daily duties. He had earned his mother and sister a lovely home, which is much for any man single handed to do; was respected in the community, well read through his industry and perseverance, and a genial and good-principled citizen.

Nellie had married a widower with several motherless children, and she was doing for others what had been done for her. Then the good mother, when her time was fully come, died and was buried, and James was left alone.

Everybody supposed he would marry now; wondered why he was a bachelor! All the married ladies pitied him for their daughters’ sakes, and ladies of uncertain ages looked wistfully in his direction. An old lady kept his house neatly, while in books and memories and social converse his days went by rapidly.

One morning the house went through an extra cleaning and arranging. An old schoolfriend, a bachelor like himself, was coming to spend several days with him, and the good housekeeper, a spinster herself, but old enough to be the mother of both of them, could not help feeling a little tremulousness with regard to the new-comer. James secretly felt more than ordinary interest in his coming, from the fact that Mrs. Stillson lived in the same place.

“I believe I have a friend in your vicinity,” said James to his friend the first evening, at the supper table.

“Ah! I suppose some flame—a maiden lady about your age, probably.”

“No. A Mrs. Stillson I refer to. We were very excellent friends when we were young.”

“Indeed! I know her very well. Have done considerable law business for her since her husband’s death. She has four children and in quite straitened circumstances.”

James Matthews felt a sudden increase of circulation about his heart.

She was free to wed him now, if she would, he thought to himself. Now he could be a father to those children, and do for them all he had longed to do for her.

When the lawyer went home, much to his surprise Mr. Matthews accompanied him.

The knock at Mrs. Stillson’s door was answered by a bright, noble-looking boy of eighteen. The mother, with the same sweet face as in her girlhood, was called in.

“Oh, James!” she said, and the tears gathered in her eyes. “I am so glad to see you once more!”

Perhaps she thought he held her hand too long and earnestly for a man who probably had a wife and children at home.

“I have thought,” she added, “if I could only see you in our present circumstances, you might be induced to take our youngest, a boy of six, and adopt him as your own.”

“Martha, may I take the boy, and take his mother with him?” said James Matthews, his heart almost too full for utterance.

The cheek was laid to his as in other days, and the old answer given, “Your will, James, is mine!”

He was satisfied now, with a happiness interwoven with it that none knew, except those who have waited long and been rewarded. The old housekeeper felt a little unpleasantly when a lady and four children were so suddenly added to their family, but soon recovered her equilibrium, and did everything for their comfort, living with them until she died.

There was considerable gossip for a time. Everybody knew now why he had not married earlier. The maiden ladies were quiet, the married ladies very polite, and James and Martha very happy in themselves and in their children.

WAIFY.

“HEAVENS, a baby! Who brought such a speck of humanity to lay at my cold door? There is no love in my heart. The thing will die with me. I’ll tuck it down in the corner of the cave for to-night.”

Giles Mortimer laid the bundle on a rough pine table, put the candle close beside it, and one by one took off the garments folded about it—took them off with the same care and fear of touch as a naturalist in preparing the wings or feet of a fly for microscopic examination. He half raised it in his arms, then laid it down, walked around the cavern with a vague knowledge of a near presence, came back, took it up slowly and held it by the firelight.

It had a delicate girl-face, with half-quivering lips, and a little body perfect in proportions. Who was she? Some mother must have cared for her as long as strength or life lasted, for she was now fully ten months old. What should he do with the little waif? This triangular cave was his home. The green turf above it shut out scorching sun and chilling snow; the rude door before its opening made it seem secure from danger; the mortar he had put about the sides, the tall prairie grass he had matted over the ground floor, the old stove he had brought thither, the rustic chair he had made from the surrounding forests, and the Indian blankets he had bought for his bed, all made it comfortable, though gloomy.

Such a place might suffice for him, but how could an infant grow into grace and beauty here, leaning ever towards the light of the outer world, and longing for love that must be the elixir of life to woman?

The lips that before quivered with fear now opened with hunger. He laid her down, went out to a log box adjoining the cave, coaxed his goat to a fresh supply of milk, and the babe drank from his hand, nestled her head against his breast, and slept. She was not tucked away in a corner, but rested next his heart through that long night.

Giles Mortimer was written fatherless and motherless in boyhood. A pleasant home was sold, a small sum of money laid away, and a youth just needing a father’s care and mother’s affection was thrust upon the charities of the world. He soon found employment in a factory, and there, day by day, when others walked and laughed upon the highway, he worked and looked beyond to a successful future, saved his money carefully, dressed simply, and in a few years had nearly enough to defray the expenses of three years’ study. College days followed. Those four years brought head and hand work to Mortimer. By forethought and exertion he gained the privilege of sweeping the college chapel, took the agency of books and pictures in vacation, and in numerous other ways partially paid for his education. His companions loved him for his geniality, and admired him for his broad grasp of mind and manly soul.

Life looked full of promise. Towards what should it tend? The professions were full. Among those who held out the gospel of life to the famishing, there were too many whom Christ had never called with His especial calling. There were lawyers at every corner quarrelling for a petty office, or looking over dusty books while sighing for the bright skies. There were teachers who needed to be taught. Chemistry, geology, and philosophy had so many votaries that only one in a century rose to eminence, and the remainder, in unsatisfying mediocrity, plodded on with little happiness to themselves and still less to others.

He turned to business. Here was an opening to gain honorable power by effort of will, by energy of hand, and by vigor of mind. There was beauty to him in the smoke that curled now lazily, now swiftly, from the chimneys of a hundred manufactories. If he could not be a merchant prince to give with blessed munificence one hundred thousand dollars for homes for the poor, he might have a home for some one who loved him, and many mites to scatter in the alleys of the great cities.

With Giles Mortimer’s man-physique and mind there was a woman’s sensitiveness, and a will that could not always bear the shock of opposition. A mountain is not all quartz, studded with jasper and amethyst, nor is it all trap, brown and coarse. All lives are elements from God’s great storehouse, and earth a crucible which melts and moulds. He needed what most men need, the stimulus of love to give position or wealth or fame; the encouragement of a voice that has inspiration in it; the touch of a hand that carries hope in its pressure; the look of an eye that shines like a lone star on a dark night. He had seen some who might have walked beside him, but for his fear of taking them from a hall to a hovel.