 | My third book |  |
Number 101.
A face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this
particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which
not a line is written, save perhaps a date. Others are great family
Bibles, with both the Old and the New Testament written in them.
Others are Mother Goose and nursery tales; others, bad tragedies or
pickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady's daughter
at the Star, sweet love anthologies and songs of the affections.
LONGFELLOW.
IT was a head—a woman's head.
The Art Union was unusually full that year, and
No. 101 hung in an out-of-the-way corner. I had been
there several times without noticing it, but that day
my eyes chanced to rest on it, and I could not withdraw
them.
The features were not entirely regular, but lofty,
and with strong lines of power. The complexion was
a dark, clear olive. The heavy black hair had been
put back, as if impatiently, behind the ears, and was
twisted in coils about the head. The expression was
most remarkable. I had never seen any thing like it
in a painting. There was fortitude and strong will in
the lines about the mouth, and much of conscious
strength and patient suffering sat on the broad forehead;
but it was reserved to the eyes to tell the story.
Those dark, melancholy, despairing eyes, whose glance
seemed turned inward, seeking after lost joys. They
were wild, they were stern, and yet they were melting
with a woman's pain. Far down in their depths was
a gleam of love—it must have been a mother's love,
for no other could have throned itself on the desolation
of such a sorrow. I looked at it silently a few
moments, and then I said aloud, “Hagar.” I had no
catalogue, but I needed none to know to whom that
face must have belonged.
“Yes,” said a voice at my side, “you have understood
my picture. That is Hagar—the Egyptian Hagar,
after she was sent forth into the desert. Ishmael
was with her, and the mother-love lived still, while all
other human affections were swept away by the fierce
hurricane of passion.”
It was a low, rich voice which spoke to me. Its
music thrilled all along the pulses of my being. I
turned and looked at the speaker.
I do not suppose she would have been called a beautiful
woman—her face was too faded for that—but
once she must have been beautiful exceedingly. I
could see, looking into her own eyes, how she had
painted the Hagar. She too must have suffered and
despaired. Her face was very pale, her eyebrows jet
black and finely arched. These, with her jetty hair
and eyes, enhanced the apparent fairness of her complexion.
But, though fair, she was not fresh. As I
said, she looked faded, and yet she could not have been
old—at the most not more than thirty. There was on
her face an expression which made me think that in
other days she had wept much, but she looked too
proud to weep often now. Genius sat on her forehead,
and she seemed to me like one who had grown
strong and pure through much suffering.
There was something so singular and unconventional
in her speaking to me at all that I hardly knew how
to reply. Perhaps some men might, for this, have esteemed
her less, but it was not so with me. I was no
stickler for etiquette—a man no longer young, who
was poor, and a worker; who had been poor all the
days of his life; who must always be poor. I was an
artist too, in my own humble way; that is, I was employed
illustrations for books and papers. I was interested
to know this fellow-laborer. I thought I would relieve
her embarrassment by appearing as if we had
met before. I bowed.
“I do not remember your name,” I said, in a tone
as if I were trying to recall something which had
slipped from my mind. A queer, half-satirical smile,
in which was some kindliness but no mirth, crossed
her face.
“That is most probable, since you never knew it.
No matter; I am Margaret Welch, and you—”
“Robert Payson, madam. I wish very much that
I could be properly introduced to you, but that seems
impossible. Need the fact of our chance meeting be
any bar to our farther acquaintance? I am a designer.
I like to know artists, and there is something in
your picture which makes me long to be your friend.
May I?”
It was a moment before she answered me. She
seemed weighing the question in her own mind. At
length she said, slowly,
“I don't see any objection. I have no friends to be
troubled at my forming an acquaintance in an eccentric
manner. I am very lonely, and I have a human
liking for occasional companionship. I am grateful to
you, moreover, for understanding my picture. I had
some trouble to get it admitted here, and until you
came I have never seen any one stop to look at it.”
“You come here often, then?”
“Yes, I have been here every day since my picture
was hung. But I can stay no longer now. This is
where you will find me.”
She handed me, as she spoke, a catalogue on which
she had been writing for a moment with her pencil.
Her name was written in a careless, graceful hand, followed
by a street and number which I recognized as
the location of a respectable lodging-house not far from
my own place of abode.
I thanked her, and she went out, leaving me standing
alone before the head of Hagar. I was deeply interested
in her. I confessed it to myself. It was not
strange, for that was almost the first adventure I had
ever met with. I was over forty, and yet, measuring
my life by its pleasures or its events, it was a very
short one. My parents had died before I could remember
them. I had been brought up by an uncle
living in the country. He had no children and was
kind to me after a fashion of his own. But he was a
self-willed man. He had resolved that I should be a
carpenter, and, though no pursuit could have been less
agreeable to me, I submitted, and went to my trade
with scarcely a remonstrance. During my apprenticeship,
however, I had drawn a great many vignettes on
the smooth boards with my pencil, in the hour given
us for dinner, and I had covered the back of my uncle's
red house with outline sketches in chalk, and so
had made up my mind that this was my true life.
Submissive as I was to any necessity against which I
saw no hope of successful contention, I had yet a strong
will of my own, a dogged persistency in a purpose
once formed.
I finished my trade the day before I was twenty-one,
and the next morning I told my uncle that I was
going to the city to learn to be a designer. His anger
was strong yet quiet, for his nature was not wholly
it must be forever. He should be sorry to lose me,
yet—with a grim smile—he guessed he could bear it;
any way, he would have no vagabond picture-makers
around him. I did not waver in my purpose. We
parted that day. I heard of his death years afterward,
but we never met again.
Fortune certainly favored me. I was not long, after
reaching the city, in procuring work—humble work
indeed—but still it brought me enough to supply my
humble wants. I had never fancied myself a genius.
I could never have learned to color, or, knowing how,
I could never have painted a Hagar; but I loved to use
my pencil, and by its use I had lived now for twenty-one
years.
I had very few acquaintances—two or three artists,
who were not ashamed of my friendship, and one or
two men whom I had pleased by my illustrations to
their books, were all, if I except the publishers who
employed me, and whom I only knew in the way of
business. I had never been on terms of familiar acquaintanceship
with any woman. At forty-two my
heart was as fresh and my life as pure as a girl's. Of
love and marriage I had seldom thought, and when I
did think, it was not to reckon them among the probabilities
which might befall myself, but merely to contemplate
them afar off, without envy or longing, as I
did wealth and station, which might be for others, but
not for me.
I do not think it was strange that, in such a man,
the lady I had met should awaken a peculiar interest.
Her face, no longer beautiful, was yet magnetic in its
power of fascinating the attention. Her voice and
of the world, as having been born and bred a lady.
The strange beginning of my acquaintance with her
was the first bit of romance that had ever shot its rosy
threads through the sombre gray woof of my forty-two
years of life.
I went home that night, but I could not sleep. All
night long my mind was wide awake; I was making
mental sketches, in which every female figure wore
the pale, sad face of my new friend. With the first
beams of dawn I sprang from my pillow, lighted my
fire, and went to work. I never thought of food. I
forgot, almost, my own existence. I worked on until
after midday. I had succeeded. This was my
sketch:
Morning breaking after a night of storm—a turbulent
sea—fragments of broken masts and spars scattered
along a desolate coast; but, in sight, only one living
thing—a woman, looking steadfastly toward the
waters. The waves had washed on shore her only,
but in “the billows' joyous dash of death” had gone
down friends, hopes, fortune; she had only herself left
—only her own living soul. The face was that of
Margaret Welch, but a little younger, and her expression
was, if possible, intensified.
I was utterly exhausted when the last touch was
given. I went out and got a cup of strong coffee and
some food. Then, with my nerves steadied, I came
back and looked at my labor. Was I a genius after
all? I asked myself. There was unmistakable power
in the sketch, but then she had been my inspiration.
I put it away. I would not have had any eyes gaze
on it save mine. I had no presentiment of the influence
happier that I had executed it.
I went out soon afterward to the rooms of the Art
Union, and there, standing before the Hagar whose
conception seemed to me so matchless, I lost my dawning
faith in my own power. I waited there for a time,
thinking that the stranger might make her appearance;
but she did not come, and after a while I started out
and went to the street and number indicated on the
catalogue which she had given me.
On my way I passed a florist's, where the windows
were filled with bouquets and pots of flowers. My
first thought was to take her a bouquet. It seemed
to me it might give her pleasure; at least, I wanted
to know if she retained gentleness enough, after all
the sorrow which had left its traces on her face, to love
flowers. But soon I changed my mind. I would give
her nothing so frail as these cut blossoms. It should
be a gift better suited to one whose means would not
let him purchase often; something more durable and
yet not unhandsome. I selected a tea-rose, growing
in a little earthen pot. It had two buds on it and one
full blooming flower.
I had but a few blocks to carry it before I reached
her house. I paused a moment at the door. I did not
know whether she were wife, maiden, or widow. Never
mind; I would inquire for Miss Welch, at a venture.
I rang the bell. I asked the girl who answered my
summons if Miss Welch lived there. She evidently
took me for the employé of some horticultural establishment
carrying home a purchase. She replied, with
a careless toss of her head,
“Yes; you must go up four flights of stairs, and the
door at your right hand will be hers.”
The stairs were long and steep.
“What a weary way,” I thought, as I climbed them,
“for that delicate woman!”
I knocked, and instantly I heard a tread quick and
firm, yet not heavy. She opened the door, and stood
holding it until she had looked full in my face. Then
she said,
“Oh, it is you! I hardly thought you would come.
Will you walk in?”
It was a humble place in which I found myself,
though scrupulously neat, and not without some marks
of comfort. There was a lounge, which must have
done duty for a bed also, two or three chairs, a stove,
a table, and, in one corner, a painter's easel. But it
was utterly devoid of ornament, save a few pictures
that hung upon the wall, in which I recognized the
same hand that had painted the Hagar. They were
all more or less wild, gloomy, despairing. There was
not a single gleam of hope in any—not a bird or a flower,
or any thing bright and happy. Stern portraitures,
they seemed, of human passion.
On the table were water-colors, drawing materials,
and a few volumes of such designs as are used for printing
calicoes and de laines. These were the only books
in the room. She was dressed, as she had been the
day before, in a plain, somewhat worn black silk, with
no ornament or superfluity.
She sat down at the table after motioning me to a
chair, and went on with her work with busy fingers.
I took up one of the patterns.
“So you, who can paint Hagar, do these things?” I
to me like a desecration of her genius. She understood
my tone.
“Yes—why not? I can not sell my pictures. I
must live, and I can get pretty good pay for these.”
“Not sell your pictures—such pictures as Hagar?
Will you let me try?”
She smiled.
“I have no objection, save that I wouldn't like you
to undertake for me such a thankless task. People
have sorrow enough of their own. They won't buy
it in a painting. They want bright faces and pleasant
landscapes—birds and flowers.”
I had held the rose-pot in my hand all this time.
Now I set it upon the table.
“Speaking of flowers,” I said, “I have brought you
this rose. Will you please me by taking it? I love
flowers, and I should like to think you had this one
to keep you company.”
A look swept over her face such as I hope few faces
ever wore. It was so lost a look—so hopeless, so despairing.
She put forth her hands to take the flower.
Then, shuddering, she drew them back and covered
her eyes with them for a moment.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, with such a wail in her
tones as I never heard ring through the cadences of
any other voice. “It is not for me—roses are not for
me. I wore them once, when I was young. I had
not suffered then, or sinned. I gathered them in my
mother's garden when I was a child—a little, innocent,
happy child—before I had broken her heart. Oh, do
not give me roses now—my touch would blast them.”
I did not say a single word. I sat there, stricken
on in a lower tone—if possible, fuller of pathos than
before.
“You meant kindly. I thank you just as much as
if I took them. But you do not know what roses mean
to me. You can not tell what it is to lose all you ever
cared for in life, and sit waiting for death, keeping company
with ghosts. When I look at those buds I can
not see these chamber walls around me, or you sitting
there. I am walking again through fields of thyme
and clover. The sky is blue over my head, and the
robin's song pulses downward like a cry of joy. Roses
bloom in the hedges, and one by my side gathers them
and puts them in my hair. But between those days
and these there is a great gulf fixed. I am not what
I was when I walked in the meadows, and gathered
flowers; and heard the village bells ring in the Sunday
morning air.”
She stopped; but the despairing look had begun to
fade out of her face, and her voice was gentler. I
thought the roses were, after all, doing her good. I
could not bear to take them away. An expedient
struck me. I rose.
“I must go now. Forgive me that I brought the
flower; but will you not give it shelter for to-night?
I can come for it to-morrow; but to-night I have a
good way farther to go. Will you let me leave it till
another day? I'll be sure to call for it.”
She looked reluctant to comply with my request;
but the habitual courtesy of her manners did not fail
her. She assented to my wish, and I bowed to her
and went out.
I wandered about the streets for an hour or two,
her mother's heart—and yet I would
have staked my life on her purity. Suffering, wronged,
reckless she might have been, but I felt to the core
of my heart that her womanhood was unstained. My
interest in her had only grown stronger with this interview.
I resolved to know her better.
The next day I worked with impatient heart—impatient
fingers—at a task I had promised to complete.
It was three o'clock in the short winter afternoon before
I was at liberty to go to her. I think she had
already learned to know my footstep; for, when I
knocked at her door, she did not move to open it, but
said “Come in.”
I obeyed her. She was sitting at her easel, evidently
very busy, but she glanced at me with a smile
of welcome as I entered. I looked around for my
rose-bush. It had been placed on the window-ledge.
Evidently it had been watered and tended. One of
the buds was already bursting into bloom. Her eyes
followed the direction of mine.
“I have changed my mind,” she said. “I should
be glad to keep it, if you will let me. It has done me
good, I think. See, already I am working differently.”
I went to her side. The unfinished picture upon
the easel was only an outline sketch, but it was infused
with spirit, power, and life. Its subject was very different
from any thing I had previously seen of hers.
It was a clover-field, with a clear sky overhead. One
side was bordered by a hedge full of blossoms, and
along this hedge a young girl walked alone. About
her mouth was a look of sweetness—of youthful buoyancy;
but the expression of her dark eyes was informed
prophecy of sorrow.
“It is beautiful,” I said; praising her, I think, more
with my eyes and the tones of my voice than my
words.
“Better than the old, hopeless ones?” she asked.
“Yes, a thousand times better, because it will do
more good. I think it has fully as much genius, too.”
“Well, if you like it better, you may thank your
roses for the change. At first I thought they would
drive me mad with the memories they evoked, but
after a while they softened my heart. I wept. I had
not done that before for years.”
I looked at her. I could see the traces of tears on
her thin cheek.
I did not stay with her long. She was absorbed in
her work, and I was more contented to leave her, because
a little of the old, hopeless sorrow seemed to
have faded from her face.
After that months passed, until winter had died its
tearful death 'neath the blue eyes of spring, and the
bier of May had been crowned, in turn, by the roses
of the summer. Our acquaintance had progressed
rapidly, and we had not been long in becoming firm,
established friends. I worked all day more diligently
than ever, for I had acquired a fresh inspiration, a
new incentive, the presence of which, however, I did
not yet acknowledge to myself. It was my reward,
after each day's labor, to go to her—to carry her whatever
I had done, and receive sometimes her praises,
sometimes her censures.
It seemed to me, when I thought about it, a strange,
unhoped-for blessing, that I, Robert Payson, should
such a lonely heart forty-two years of my life, in one
unlooked-for hour a sun of warmth and hope should
have arisen. I asked nothing better of Heaven. Just
as she was, my friend suited me. The dim smile on
her worn and faded face was more to me, more and
fairer, than the brightest glory of any younger woman's
beauty. Every outline of her shadowy yet graceful
figure; every expression on her sad yet tender
face; every inflection of her low, musical voice, possessed
for me its own unexplained yet exceeding
charm.
And so, unconsciously, love grew into my life, until,
one summer night, like Venus rising from the sea,
it stood up full-nurtured before me, and I knew that
my heart was my own no longer. It happened thus:
I had just completed a design which I liked unusually
well. It was for the vignette title-page of a book
of poems—an angel bearing through space a lyre and
a crown. The angel's eyes and hair were light, according
to the generally-accepted tradition, but her
face was that of Margaret Welch, only the expression
was different. It was such as I had fancied Margaret's
might be when joy had triumphed over the long sorrow
of her life. It was a prophecy of all I had hoped
for her. I was impatient to show it to her. I walked
with hurried steps to her dwelling, thinking by the
way whether it would bring her comfort—what she
would say of it. Eagerly I mounted the four steep
flights of stairs. I stood before her door, but outside
it was pinned a piece of paper on which these words
were traced:
“My friend, I can not see you to-day. I am ill;
scarcely able to sit up at all.”
Of course, there was no questioning such a decree.
I turned sorrowfully away. I went home more unhappy
than I had ever been in my life. It was not
over my own disappointment, though that was not
slight, but I could not bear to fancy her alone and
suffering. I longed with inexpressible longing for a
right to go to her—to sit by her side—to soothe her
pains—to bathe her head—to nurse her, as I felt I
could, with a woman's tenderness and a man's untiring
strength. Then it was that my passion rose up
and confronted me. I looked into my own heart—
that heart which had so strangely outgrown my knowledge.
I saw that no friend's place by her side would
content me—that I must win her to be all my own, or
from henceforth my life must be empty and barren of
joy.
I knew nothing of her past history. She had never
volunteered any information, and, respecting her
silence, I had never asked any questions. But for
this I did not care. I loved her as I knew her. I
had faith in her. I know in this I was unlike most
men, but I would have been contented to call her my
wife—to hold her head on my heart forever, and know
no more of her than I knew now.
But would she ever be mine? Could I ever hope
—I, whose lot had been so lonely hitherto—to have
that worshiped woman for my very own, my household
angel, the best half of my existence. Hitherto
I should have thought myself too poor to marry; but
her tastes were simple like my own. I should have
enough for her. I could not sleep that night. To a
man who had seen forty-two years without having his
pulse quickened by a woman's voice, love comes at
younger men never dream. It maintains its empire
with a terrible tyranny.
The next morning, as soon as I dared, I stood again
at the door of Margaret Welch. The paper had been
removed. I knocked, and she came herself to answer
my summons. She looked worn and ill, but her brush
was in her hand. She held the door so that there was
no room for me to enter.
“May I not come in, then?” I asked.
“No, not at this hour. I am busy, and so should
you be. I am better. I know you came because you
thought me ill. It was good of you to be so anxious.
You may come again at the usual hour to-night. Perhaps
I will go to walk with you. I should like a
breath of sea-air on the Battery, but you must not
stay any longer now.”
So saying, she closed the door, and, half unwillingly,
I obeyed her and went away. I felt happier all
day, however, because I had seen her — because I
should soon see her again. I was growing miserly.
I could not bear she should be out of my sight. I
did not work much that day. The pictures I made
were fancy ones. I seemed to see a room pleasant,
though humble; a cheerful carpet upon the floor; a
few books; a few pictures; a few flowers. In one
corner, at an easel, sat a woman with slight yet graceful
figure. Her head, so regal with its crown of hair,
was bent toward her work; and, sitting opposite to
her at my own task, I could catch, now and then, the
gleam of her earnest eyes. How sweet it would be
to work together. Margaret had been more successful
of late. Since I had known her many gleams of
and I had been able to find for several of her pictures
a ready sale.
How thankful I was that evening when the clock
struck seven. Then I was at liberty to go to her.
Her door was standing open, that the July air, which
even in the hot city is not wholly without its breath
of balm, might enter. She was sitting idly by the
window, picking one or two faded leaves from the
rose-bush I had given her, which was now full of
blossoms. For once she was not clad in her accustomed
black. A dress of some summer fabric, of a
quiet, dim hue, fell around her in soft, fleecy folds.
She had gathered one of the sweet tea-roses, and placed
it in her hair. I thought I had never seen her look
so lovely.
When she saw me at the door she looked up with
such a glow of warmth and light upon her face as I
had never seen there before.
“I am glad you have come,” she said. “I feel better
than I have for months. Yesterday I was sick.
I fought a great battle, too, with a foe in my own
heart, and conquered. To-day, my friend, you look
upon a victor. See, I am wearing one of your roses
on my forehead—the first flower I have worn in years.
It is my token of victory.”
I went in and sat down beside her. I tried to make
some commonplace remark, but I could not. I sat
watching her. She was in a strange, joyous mood.
She seemed impatient of silence. Soon she said,
“Shall I get my bonnet? Are you ready to walk
now?”
“No, not yet. Sit down, Margaret.” And then
listened. Oh, what a look overswept her face! In it
were anguish, despair, pride, and love. Yes, I knew
love was there. Cast me off—turn from me, if she
would—I knew that she loved me. She listened to
me in silence; and then a cry burst from her lips—a
passionate cry—
“O God, my burden is heavier than I can bear!”
Then she looked at me with dark, sorrowful eyes.
“Oh, could I not have been spared your friendship?”
she went on. “Must I tear up by the roots
every joy of my life? I thought I was secure of that
always.”
I interrupted her. I tried to tell her, in my poor
way, which no passion could make eloquent, how I
had not ceased to be her friend, but how I could not
help loving her better than friends love—better than
life; how I would gladly die for her. But she scarcely
seemed to hear me. When I entreated her to answer
me, she begged me to go away—to give her time
to think. I had frightened her. Come to her to-morrow
night, and I should know; but I must promise
not to come before. I promised. I rose to leave
her, but when I had reached the door I turned back.
“Margaret,” I cried, “give me some hope. I know
you will deal justly with me; but if you care for me
at all, give me a little hope.”
I could see the effort she made to control herself.
“Yes, my friend,” she faltered, “I will deal justly
with you. I have not listened to your words with an
unmoved heart, but not till to-morrow can I answer
you. I must have time to think. But I will give
you this.”
She took the rose from her hair, and laid it in my
hand with a regal grace. I have it still. I went down
stairs and groped my way home, for there was a mist
before my eyes; and though the evening was still,
and the sunset clouds were bright, I could not see.
I will not write of the next twenty-four hours.
Hard as it was to keep away from her, I obeyed her
wishes. I did not even enter, that day, the street
where she lived, though I could not stay in-doors. I
paced restlessly through and through the most crowded
thoroughfares, striving to drown, in the confusion,
the longing cry of my anxious, uncertain heart.
That night, when I had climbed the stairs, I found
Margaret's door open as before. But where was she
whose smile had so often transformed for me into Eden
the little circumference bounded by those four walls?
The room bore no traces of her presence. The pictures
were gone from the walls—the easel from the corner
—the rose-bush from the window. I write these
things calmly now, but I did not look upon them
calmly then. On the table lay a letter, superscribed
with my name. This, then, would explain the mystery.
I seized it. I never knew how I got down the
stairs, or how I found my way home; but I broke the
seal of that letter in my own room. I will copy it,
word for word; but I can not tell you how I read it
—with what tears, what prayers, what passion of love
and despair. It told her story in these words:
“My friend, my life's one friend, I said I would
deal justly with you, and I will, though it should break
my heart. I will force my mind to be calm, my memory
to be clear, my hand steady. I will give you the
confidence you were too generous to ask. I will unveil
for you my past life.
“Thirty-three years ago a baby was born in a pleasant
country home in England. It was the first child,
after seven years of marriage. It came to two who
loved each other dearly—who received it with joy and
thanksgiving. It grew up, so I have heard, into a
beautiful child. I can remember, even now, the praises
and caresses which were lavished on me in those early
years—the green fields, and the blossoms about my
home, the singing birds, and the blue sky which arched
over my happy life. My parents were not wealthy,
but my mother had been bred a lady, and I grew up
surrounded by all the refinements of life.
“When I was only sixteen—a child still, in my impulsiveness—a
stranger came to the neighborhood of
my home—a young man. Oh, how handsome he was,
and what a flattering tongue he had. It might have
wiled away a seraph out of Paradise. I learned soon
to love him. My nature was never one that could
love lightly, and soon I yielded up my heart to him,
with all its fullness of tenderness and youthful trust.
My parents strove to break off our acquaintance. He
was called wild and dissolute, and they forbade me to
see him. But I thought they wronged him, and
clung to him only the more resolutely. I met him by
stealth; and it was not long before he had persuaded
me to consent to a secret marriage. I fled with him,
without a word of farewell to my father or my mother.
I left only a note behind me, explaining the motives
of my flight.
“Well, he established me far away, in a pleasant
home; and here, for two years, I was happy. For a
long time his devotion continued unabated; and when,
after a year had passed, he seemed to get a little weary
now and then, and sometimes to gather his friends
about him, I thought it but natural, and did not repine.
I bore his absence the better, for on my breast
lay a baby-girl, who looked at me with her father's
eyes. With her in my arms, I was never sad or lonely.
I thought, too, that her father loved me. Fear
that he would change, or suspicion of his truth, had
never crossed my mind.
“Did I tell you he was rich? In spite of this, however,
we lived very quietly with only two servants.
One day he had a friend to dine with him. I did not
like the man's face, and I excused myself from joining
them. Indeed, my baby needed my care. After an
hour she grew restless in her sleep, and seemed feverish.
I was always very anxious where she was concerned,
and I thought I would go down and ask her
father to look at her.
“When I reached the dining-room, I could tell by
the sound that they were through dinner and sitting
over their wine. I was about to open the door, when
I heard my name—my maiden name—spoken by the
visitor in a sneering tone. I paused, with a natural
impulse to listen. Oh heaven! how shall I tell you the
discovery I made in that hour? The man I had called
my husband was telling by what means he had inveigled
me into his power by a mock marriage. Oh,
do not scorn me too bitterly, Robert Payson, but I
learned then and there that I was a mother and no
wife. Nor was this all. The man whom I had so
loved—whom, God help me, I did so love still, was
planning how to dispose of me so that I would not be
an encumbrance in the way of his marrying one Lady
wooing, and nearly won.
“My first thought was to burst into the room and
denounce him for his treachery. But how, then, could
I escape from him—from this shame which was turning
my heart to stone? Once in his presence, and I
should be in his power, for I knew myself and the
mad love I bore him. No, I must never look upon
his face again. Never again should he hear my voice
until its echo should haunt him, as I knew it would,
on his death day. I gave myself no time for moans
or tears. I would not look in the face my anguish,
my despair. I went quickly up stairs. My little girl
was sleeping more quietly. I did not disturb her.
Hurriedly I put together a few necessary changes of
of raiment. I was unwilling to take any thing from
him; but for my child's sake, his child and mine, I
must not heed such scruples. I had a set of diamonds,
the only very expensive present he had ever made
me. I knew that he had given something over four
hundred pounds for them. These I secreted about
my person. I had, besides, a small purse of money.
I wrote on a slip of paper these words:
“`I have heard your confession. I relieve you of
my presence. You will never see either of us again,
me or your child. Marry the Lady Elinor, and may
the Lord deal more kindly with you than you have
dealt with me.'
“I placed this where it would meet his eye, perhaps
not at once, but before many hours. Then my preparations
were complete. I took up my darling very
carefully, so as not to waken her. I stole down stairs
with her folded close to my bosom. Do you wonder
more lonely wanderer than she, with no angel of the
Lord to minister unto me?
“But I must not linger by the way. I do not know
whether he whom I had thought my husband pursued
me. I never saw his face again. It was five days before
I reached my home. All day I walked onward,
footsore and weary, and then at night I would procure
a lodging from some kind cottager. My baby had
seemed to improve during all this time, despite the fatigue.
The fresh air, the sunshine, and the sweet
breath of the summer meadows had been to her like a
draught of life. But not even her head pressed against
my heart, her little hands wandering over my bosom,
could still the passionate pulses of my despair. Cast
out and forsaken of men I felt myself. I had but one
wish in life — every hour it grew stronger — a wild
longing to get home—only to get home; to drag myself
to my mother's side; to pray for her forgiveness;
to see once more her kind eyes; to hear her gentle
voice; to lay on her bosom my helpless baby, and then
die. Ever, in fancy, I seemed to see the pleasant country
church-yard. Wooingly its yew-trees stretched
their green arms toward me. How I panted to lie
down under them in a long and dreamless sleep.
“The fifth night found me still six miles from home.
I was so worn-out and exhausted I could drag my
weary limbs no farther. I sought, as usual, a humble
lodging, and, with my baby on my breast, sank into
the deep sleep of fatigue. A little after midnight I
awoke. The close air of the room seemed to stifle
me. I could sleep no more. I was too restless to lie
still. At last the home-longing became irresistible.
more on the high road toward the little village which
was the goal of my pilgrimage. When I arrived
there it was the early morning. The sun had not yet
risen, but clouds of gold, and crimson, and purple were
heralding his coming. The village was still. At a
little distance I could see the white chimneys of my
father's house rising through the surrounding greenery.
I turned my steps that way. `Courage, darling!'
I murmured to the sleeping baby upon my bosom;
`soon we shall be at home.'
“All at once, involuntarily, my feet were stayed.
I heard a voice as plainly as I shall ever hear the
Archangel's summons when the day of the Lord shall
come. It said,
“`Go to the church-yard. It is there she waits for
you.'
“Mechanically I turned and entered the place of
graves. Tremblingly I sought the sheltered nook
where my grandparents were sleeping. There was
another mound beside them. For a moment I was
dizzy. I could see nothing. Then the mist cleared
from my eyes, and I sank on my knees beside the new
head-stone. O God! it bore my mother's name, and
under it these words of maddening reproach:
“`Her heart broke, and she died.'
“O mother, sainted mother, even from the grave
your blood called upward to accuse me. Thus was
my longing answered. The mother eyes, whose pity
I had thought to meet, forever closed — the mother
voice, whose forgiveness I had prayed to hear, forever
hushed—the mother bosom, where I had thought my
babe should find a home, cold as the head-stone over
despair. Then a cry burst from my lips—
“`O God, let us both die here—I and my child!'
“Just then the sun burst through the morning
clouds. Its first rays fell upon the head-stone, and revealed
to me, on its other side, what I had not before
seen—a sculptured angel, its wings poised as if for
flight, its eyes uplifted to heaven, and underneath it
the words,
“`Our loss was her gain.'
“Through them stole the first ray of comfort to my
darkened soul. She was happy now, my mother who
had lived and died for me. I, too, was a mother. I,
too, had a child to live for. There was no one on
earth now to take my responsibility from me. Well,
for the little one's sake, I must endure life. I gathered
her close to me. I breathed a silent yet fervent
prayer to heaven. Then I arose. I would not seek
my father. I would spare him a meeting with his
child who had broken her mother's heart. There was
nothing more for me in the little country village. I
gathered a daisy and a few spears of grass which had
already sprung above my mother's heart, and placed
them in my bosom; and then, drawing my veil over
my face, I went back into the highway and walked
rapidly out of the village. An hour after I sat down
under a beech-tree, and drew my purse from my pocket.
Hitherto I had performed my journey on foot,
determined that my small means should suffice to keep
me, even in case of accidental delays, until I reached
home. This was the more necessary, as I did not
wish to turn my diamonds into money until I could
send or carry them to London, where I thought I
should be more likely to receive their just value.
“Now I had turned my back on home forever. I
might as well go at once to London as any where.
Three quarters of a mile away was a post station
where I could take the coach. I counted my money.
I had enough to pay for an outside passage. I walked
hurriedly on. I had a little fear lest the driver
might recognize me, and was relieved, as the coach
came up, to see that a stranger held the reins.
“That afternoon I reached London. I went to a
quiet lodging-house, and, having procured a room, put
on the spare suit I had carried with me. Dressed thus
in habiliments suited to a lady, I went out, leaving my
babe in the landlady's care, and effected the sale of
my diamonds for three hundred pounds. I had enough
practical knowledge to be aware that this sum would
soon be exhausted if I did not contrive to eke it out
by some resources of my own. The only one which
suggested itself was my brush. My natural talent for
art had been carefully cultivated by the best masters
during the time I had lived with the man whose wife
I had supposed myself. But I could not stay in London
and paint. I could never rest until the ocean
rolled between me and my babe's father. Oh, how I
loved that man still! My heart clung to him with a
mad, passionate grasp, but I would not have looked
upon his face for worlds.
“I ran my eye over the advertisements in the evening
paper. A vessel was to start in three days for
America. I would go in her. What mattered it to
what strange shores I drifted—I, a lonely human
wreck?
“Thus it chanced that I found myself in the late
autumn in New York. You, my friend, know something
would win food and shelter by art. It was only now
and then that I could sell a picture. But I contrived
to live, and to make my little Grace comfortable and
happy. Can you believe it? I was myself almost
happy sometimes in those days. The burning sense
of shame, of disgrace, never left me, and the old love
haunted me night and day with mocking whispers;
but when my little girl could call me mother, when
her young, merry voice cooed out such music to my
life, I could not be wholly desolate. Something of the
balm and healing of motherhood came home to me;
her kisses charmed, sometimes, my throbbing, lamenting
heart into silence.
“Alas! I know not why God saw fit to make me
wholly desolate. When she was not yet three years
old she sickened suddenly and died. During the
three days of her illness I prayed as I had never prayed
before, but there came no answer. I watched the
light die out of her eyes; her limbs stiffen into marble;
her fluttering heart grow still and cease to beat,
and then I no longer prayed or wept. I was calm,
Robert Payson, calm, but it was a calmness more pitiful
than the wildest passion. I followed her to the
grave. I saw the earth heaped over her, and then I
came home—home, where I was all alone, where her
voice would make no more music, her smile would
make no more light: my arms were empty, my heart
frozen.
“The next day I read in an English newspaper an
account of her father's marriage to Lady Elinor Howard,
but it moved me only to a scornful smile.
“I have lived alone twelve years since that day,
knew you. I painted with more power than ever, but
my pictures were like my life, wild and despairing.
No one would buy them. I was willing enough to
die, but a memory of two whom I held dear in heaven—my
mother and my child—kept me from voluntary
suicide. So I procured the pattern drawing of
which you complained. It kept me alive.
“You know most of my life since our first meeting.
You have done me good. You have melted the frozen
heart, and convinced me that there is yet honor and
truth in the world.
“I told you that yesterday I fought a battle with a
foe in my own heart and conquered. I will explain
all to you now.
“Yesterday was the anniversary of my mock marriage.
Yesterday morning, by some strange coincidence
of fate or chance, I learned the death of the man
I had once loved. It did not move me as it would
have done even one year ago. I examined my own
heart. I found that the love which had survived betrayal,
anguish, and separation, was now dead utterly.
I had forgiven Arthur Hastings fully and freely, but I
did not love him. In the same hour another truth
stood unmasked before me. I did love you—you,
who had never asked for my love. But I knew, I
know not by what electric chord of sympathy, that
your heart was mine. I did not blush for my love,
but I strove to conquer its longings. I thought I had
succeeded. But the struggle was a hard one. My
life had been so dark, so lonely, how could I resolve,
now that a cup of happiness was held to my panting
lips, with my own hands to put it from me?
“And yet I must make the sacrifice. I loved you
too well to ally you with my shame, to give you the
mere wreck and ruin of a life. Nay, when you knew
all, you would perhaps yourself turn from me; and
yet a secret instinct in my heart tells me you would
cling to me still. No matter; I will not linger over
the contest. The right triumphed. I resolved that I
would keep you from ever asking me to love you. I
would retain you my firm, faithful friend. Your
friendship should brighten the sunset of my day.
This thought gave me inexpressible comfort. You
found me joyous, triumphant. You told me your
love, and by so doing you have separated us.
“I have been all night lingering over this letter.
The new day which is breaking now brings with it
work for me to do. I can not trust myself to see you
again. When you come, at evening, for my answer,
you will find this letter here, and not me. Do not
mourn for me. I am not worth your sorrow. Waste
no time in seeking me. It will be impossible for you
to find me. Indeed, were it possible, it would be
worse than useless, for I would then put sea and land
between us. It would only bring upon me a new
trial. Now I shall please myself by thinking that
only a few streets separate us. Nay, sometimes I may
even pass you in the street. I may see your eyes and
hear your voice. And you will never be far away
from me. When I am dying I will send for you.
You shall have my last prayer, my last blessing. Until
then we must not meet.
“Oh, Robert, how can I say good-by, even on this
paper, which seems, while I am writing, to link me
with you? And yet I must say it in its fullest
with you!”
This was all. She had loved me, and I had lost
her. No, not lost her. She was pure as one of heaven's
angel's in my eyes, dearer to me than ever. I
would not allow myself to despair. Could a few
streets separate two souls which belonged to each
other? I would find her, and she should not again
tear herself from me. Her own heart, her loving
woman's heart, would second my prayers.
The next day I commenced my search. For three
months I continued it. Sometimes I would see a figure
far in advance of me which I thought was hers.
I would hurry on breathlessly and overtake it, and
some cold, strange face would meet my anxious look.
I sought her every where. I asked after her at every
picture-store and exhibition-room. No one anwering
my description had been seen in any of them.
At last, one evening, I sat alone in my room, thinking
of her as usual. It was late autumn now, and a
fire had been kindled. While I sat looking musingly
into the embers, with the suddenness of an inspiration
a new device came to me. This it was:
I would take the sketch which I executed the day
after I saw her first, and place it in the window of a
well-known picture-dealer on Broadway, with my name
under it. She had never seen it, but I knew its subject
could not fail to move her deeply. There was
true genius in it. Even I was convinced of that.
The turbulent stretch of waters—the one lone woman,
white and despairing, upon the beach—the woman
with a face so like Margaret's own that I could not
unmoved. I would wait day after day within that
shop till she should come, as I never doubted she
would come at last. Thus I would regain my lost
treasure. When I think now what a wild, almost impossible
scheme of chance was this which I adopted
with such implicit faith, I wonder at myself; but it
did not even seem strange to me then.
Early next morning I went to the picture-dealer.
Without any explanation of my motives, I easily procured
permission to exhibit the sketch in his window,
and to spend as much time as I wished in his establishment.
Providing myself with a book of engravings
for an ostensible occupation, I stationed myself
where I could see all the passers-by without being observed
by them, and there I sat from morning till
night. Not until the middle of the third day was any
particular interest excited by the picture. Then a
woman stopped to look at it. She seemed bent by
age and infirmity. Through her thick veil I could
see that her hair was silver white. Any where else I
should not have questioned for a moment that she
was an old lady of at least sixty. But her emotion
was unequivocal. She gazed with absorbing interest
upon the picture. I could see that she trembled visibly,
and grasped a railing in front of the window for
support. Was it Margaret? Had I penetrated her
disguise at last? My heart beat audibly. At length
she tottered away. I sprang to the door and looked
out after her. She moved on for a few steps, and then
she sank, fainting and helpless, upon the pavement.
I called to the driver of an empty carriage which was
passing slowly by. I sprang to her side, lifted her
the number of my lodgings. He shut the door, mounted
the box, and drove away.
I think I was scarcely less pale than she, but my
excitement gave me strength. I untied her veil and
removed her bonnet. With it fell off the silver hair.
It was indeed my darling, my life's darling, whom I
held in my arms; but oh how changed, and worn, and
wasted was her face now! All this time she had not
opened her eyes, nor could I discover that she breathed.
Had I recovered her but to see her die? I shouted to
the coachman to drive faster. Almost before I had
spoken the words we were at home. I tossed the man
his fare. I lifted her out and carried her up the steps.
My landlady herself answered my impatient ring. I
told her, in a few words, that the lady was a near and
dear friend who had fainted in the street. Her womanly
sympathy was aroused, and she joined me in efforts
to restore her consciousness. Soon she drew a
long, deep breath. I whispered Mrs. Barker to leave
us alone, lest the sight of a strange face might startle
her. She obeyed.
When my beloved opened her eyes they met mine.
I do not know what story she read in them, but she
turned her own away, and a quick crimson overspread
her pale face.
“Where am I, Robert?” she asked, in feeble tones.
I told her the story of my search, and in what manner
I had at last found her, and then I cried out, triumphantly,
“And now God himself has given you to me, you
shall never leave me again. You have no other friend.
You have no home in all the world but in my heart.
My beloved, my beloved!”
She did not answer me. I saw that she had relapsed
again almost into insensibility. I hurried to
Mrs. Barker, and explained her story in a few words,
begging her to send at once for a physician. She was
a good, kind creature, and she proved, in my hour of
need, a faithful friend.
After that a long, slow fever followed, which brought
Margaret very near to the gates of death. The doctor
said that only untiring care could have saved her. I
did not know what fatigue was in those days. Night
and day I watched over her. She was what Mrs. Barker
called light-headed, and during three weeks she
did not seem to recognize me. At length the fever
turned, and the calm light of reason came back to her
eyes. As soon as I thought she could bear it I plead
with her again, not for her love—she had assured me
that was mine long ago—but for her hand in marriage.
I showed her how utterly joyless and lonely my life
was without her—how she could be its crown and its
glory. I told her how faultless and how pure she was
in my sight, and then I prayed her, wildly, passionately,
to be my wife. A smile broke over her pallid,
wasted face; a smile of perfect trust, of unutterable
love. She put her thin hand into mine. She murmured,
“You have saved my life, Robert; you have a right
to dispose of it. If it is worth any thing to you now,
you shall have it.”
I sank on my knees beside her. I bowed my head
to conceal the rush of glad, heart-relieving tears that
would come, and then her feeble arms dropped around
my neck and clung to me closely. I felt her lips press
upon mine her first kiss.
Thus love triumphed.
A few days after she became my wife. I had asked
only this of heaven, and it was granted me. I had
reached the goal of my life.
In the years that followed, all the pictures I had
made for myself of life with her were realized fully.
We lived humbly, but happily. Sunny landscapes
and joyous faces smiled on my wife's canvas, and even
in my efforts she found something of which to be
proud.
At length Old Age stole upon us, and turned our
hair white; our eyes lost their power; our hands forgot
their cunning. But he could not chill or make
old our hearts.
Then Death surprised us. He stilled my wife's
pulses, and hushed the voice I loved to hear. He led
her before me into the country of shadows; but our
love triumphed over even him. Night and day, though
I see her not, I know she walks or sits beside me; and
before many months, kind friends—I have friends now
—will lay down “what once was me” to a long sleep
beneath the trees of Greenwood, beside the grave in
which her worn frame lies mouldering. But somewhere,
far away, she and I shall rejoice together in
immortal love and immortal youth. Some patient
reader will pause, perchance, over this record of our
two lives, but
Over the hills and far away.”
| My third book | |