 | On picket duty, and other tales |  |
3. THE CROSS ON THE OLD CHURCH TOWER.
UP the dark stairs that led to his poor home strode a
gloomy-faced young man with despair in his heart and
these words on his lips: —
“I will struggle and suffer no longer; my last hope has
failed, and life, become a burden, I will rid myself of at once.”
As he muttered his stern purpose, he flung wide the door
and was about to enter, but paused upon the threshold; for
a glance told him that he had unconsciously passed his own
apartment and come up higher, till he found himself in a
room poorer but more cheerful than his own.
Sunshine streamed in through the one small window,
where a caged bird was blithely singing, and a few flowers
blossomed in the light. But blither than the bird's song,
sweeter than the flowers, was the little voice and wan face of
a child, who lay upon a bed placed where the warmest sunbeams
fell.
The face turned smiling on the pillow, and the voice said
pleasantly, —
“Come in, sir, Bess will soon be back if you will wait.”
“I want nothing of Bess. Who is she and who are you?”
asked the intruder pausing as he was about to go.
“She is my sister, sir, and I'm `poor Jamie' as they call
me. But indeed, I am not to be pitied, for I am a happy
child, though it may not seem so.”
“Why do you lie there? are you sick?”
“No, I am not sick, though I shall never leave my bed
the child showed his little withered limbs.
“How long have you lain here, my poor boy?” asked the
stranger, touched and interested in spite of himself.
“Three years, sir.”
“And yet you are happy! What in Heaven's name have
you to render you contented, child?”
“Come sit beside me, and I'll tell you, sir; that is, if you
please I should love to talk with you, for it's lonely here
when Bess is gone.”
Something in the child's winning voice, and the influence
of the cheerful room, calmed the young man's troubled spirit
and seemed to lighten his despair. He sat down at the bedside
looking gloomily upon the child, who lay smiling placidly
as with skilful hands he carved small figures from the bits of
wood scattered round him on the coverlid.
“What have you to make you happy, Jamie? Tell me
your secret, for I need the knowledge very much,” said his
new friend earnestly.
“First of all I have dear Bess,” and the child's voice lingered
lovingly upon the name; “she is so good, so very good
to me, no one can tell how much we love each other. All
day, she sits beside my bed singing to ease my pain, or reading
while I work; she gives me flowers and birds, and all
the sunshine that comes in to us, and sits there in the shadow
that I may be warm and glad. She waits on me all day;
but when I wake at night, I always see her sewing busily, and
know it is for me, — my good kind Bess!
“Then I have my work, sir, to amuse me; and it helps a
little too, for kind children always buy my toys, when Bess
tells them of the little boy who carved them lying here at
home while they play out among the grass and flowers where
he can never be.”
“What else, Jamie?” and the listener's face grew softer
as the cheerful voice went on.
“I have my bird, sir, and my roses, I have books, and
best of all, I have the cross on the old church tower. I can
see it from my pillow and it shines there all day long, so
bright and beautiful, while the white doves coo upon the roof
below. I love it dearly.”
The young man looked out through the narrow window and
saw, rising high above the house-tops, like a finger pointing
heavenward, the old gray tower and the gleaming cross. The
city's din was far below, and through the summer air the faint
coo of the doves and the flutter of their wings came down,
like peaceful country sounds.
“Why do you love it, Jamie?” he asked, looking at the
thoughtful face that lit up eagerly as the boy replied,—
“Because it does me so much good, sir. Bess told me
long ago about the blessed Jesus who bore so much for us,
and I longed to be as like him as a little child could grow.
So when my pain was very sharp, I looked up there, and,
thinking of the things he suffered, tried so hard to bear it
that I often could; but sometimes when it was too bad, instead
of fretting Bess, I'd cry softly, looking up there all the
time and asking him to help me be a patient child. I think
he did; and now it seems so like a friend to me, I love it
better every day. I watch the sun climb up along the roofs
in the morning, creeping higher and higher till it shines upon
the cross and turns it into gold. Then through the day I
watch the sunshine fade away till all the red goes from the
sky, and for a little while I cannot see it through the dark.
But the moon comes, and I love it better then; for lying
awake through the long nights, I see the cross so high and
bright with stars all shining round it, and I feel still and
happy in my heart as when Bess sings to me in the twilight.”
“But when there is no moon, or clouds hide it from you,
what then, Jamie?” asked the young man, wondering if
there were no cloud to darken the cheerful child's content.
“I wait till it is clear again, and feel that it is there, although
I cannot see it, sir. I hope it never will be taken
down, for the light upon the cross seems like that I see in
dear Bessie's eyes when she holds me in her arms and calls
me her `patient Jamie.' She never knows I try to bear my
troubles for her sake, as she bears hunger and cold for mine.
So you see, sir, how many things I have to make me a happy
child.”
“I would gladly lie down on your pillow to be half as
light of heart as you are, little Jamie, for I have lost my
faith in everything and with it all my happiness;” and the
heavy shadow which had lifted for a while fell back darker
than before upon the anxious face beside the bed.
“If I were well and strong like you, sir, I think I should
be so thankful nothing could trouble me;” and with a sigh
the boy glanced at the vigorous frame and energetic countenance
of his new friend, wondering at the despondent look
he wore.
“If you were poor, so poor you had no means wherewith
to get a crust of bread, nor a shelter for the night; if you
were worn-out with suffering and labor, soured by disappointment
and haunted by ambitious hopes never to be realized,
what would you do, Jamie?” suddenly asked the young man,
prompted by the desire that every human heart has felt for
sympathy and counsel, even from the little creature before
him ignorant and inexperienced as he was.
But the child, wiser in his innocence than many an older
counsellor, pointed upward, saying with a look of perfect
trust, —
“I should look up to the cross upon the tower and think
clothes the flowers, and I should wait patiently, feeling sure
he would remember me.”
The young man leaned his head upon his folded arms and
nothing stirred in the room, but the wind that stole in through
the roses to fan the placid face upon the pillow.
“Are you weary waiting for me, Jamie dear? I could not
come before;” and as her eager voice broke the silence, Sister
Bess came hastening in.
The stranger, looking up, saw a young girl regarding him
from Jamie's close embrace, with a face whose only beauty
was the light her brother spoke of, that beamed warm and
bright from her mild countenance and made the poor room
fairer for its presence.
“This is Bess, my Bess, sir,” cried the boy, “and she
will thank you for your kindness in sitting here so long with
me.”
“I am the person who lodges just below you; I mistook
this room for my own; pardon me, and let me come again,
for Jamie has already done me good,” replied the stranger
as he rose to go.
“Bess, dear, will you bring me a cup of water?” Jamie
said; and as she hastened away, he beckoned his friend nearer,
saying with a timid wistful look,—
“Forgive me, if it's wrong, but I wish you would let me
give you this; it's very little, but it may help some; and I
think you'll take it to please `poor Jamie.' Won't you, sir?”
and as he spoke, the child offered a bright coin, the proceeds
of his work.
Tears sprung into the proud man's eyes; he held the little
wasted hand fast in his own a moment, saying seriously,—
“I will take it, Jamie, as a loan wherewith to begin
anew the life I was about to fling away as readily as I do
into the street. “I'll try the world once more in a humbler
spirit, and have faith in you, at least, my little Providence.”
With an altered purpose in his heart, and a brave smile on
his lips, the young man went away, leaving the child with
another happy memory, to watch the cross upon the old
church tower.
It was mid-winter; and in the gloomy house reigned suffering
and want. Sister Bess worked steadily to earn the dear
daily bread so many pray for and so many need. Jamie lay
upon his bed, carving with feeble hands the toys which would
have found far readier purchasers, could they have told the
touching story of the frail boy lying meekly in the shadow
of the solemn change which daily drew more near.
Cheerful and patient always, poverty and pain seemed to
have no power to darken his bright spirit; for God's blessed
charity had gifted him with that inward strength and peace
it so often brings to those who seem to human eyes most
heavily afflicted.
Secret tears fell sometimes on his pillow, and whispered
prayers went up; but Bess never knew it, and like a ray of
sunshine, the boy's tranquil presence lit up that poor home;
and amid the darkest hours of their adversity, the little rush-light
of his childish faith never wavered nor went out.
Below them lived the young man, no stranger now, but a
true friend, whose generous pity would not let them suffer
any want he could supply. Hunger and cold were hard
teachers, but he learned their lessons bravely, and though
his frame grew gaunt and his eye hollow, yet, at heart, he
felt a better, happier man for the stern discipline that taught
him the beauty of self-denial and the blessedness of loving
his neighbor better than himself.
The child's influence remained unchanged, and when anxiety
or disappointment burdened him, the young man sat at
Jamie's bedside listening to the boy's unconscious teaching,
and receiving fresh hope and courage from the childish words
and the wan face, always cheerful and serene.
With this example constantly before him, he struggled on,
feeling that if the world were cold and dark, he had within
himself one true affection to warm and brighten his hard
life.
“Give me joy, Jamie! Give me joy, Bess! the book
sells well, and we shall yet be rich and famous,” cried the
young author as he burst into the quiet room one wintry
night with snow-flakes glittering in his hair, and his face
aglow with the keen air which had no chill in it to him now.
Bess looked up to smile a welcome, and Jamie tried to cry
“Hurrah;” but the feeble voice faltered and failed, and he
could only wave his hand and cling fast to his friend, whispering,
brokenly, —
“I 'm glad, oh, very glad; for now you need not rob
yourself for us. I know you have, Walter; I have seen it
in your poor thin face and these old clothes. It never would
have been so, but for Bess and me.”
“Hush, Jamie, and lie here upon my arm and rest; for
you are very tired with your work, — I know by this hot
hand and shortened breath. Are you easy now? Then
listen; for I've brave news to tell you, and never say again
I do too much for you, — the cause of my success.”
“I, Walter,” cried the boy; “what do you mean?”
Looking down upon the wondering face uplifted to his own,
the young man answered with deep feeling, —
“Six months ago I came into this room a desperate and
despairing man, weary of life, because I knew not how to
use it, and eager to quit the struggle because I had not
kept me, Jamie, till the reckless mood was passed, and by
the beauty of your life showed me what mine should be.
Your courage shamed my cowardice; your faith rebuked my
fears; your lot made my own seem bright again. I, a man
with youth, health, and the world before me, was about
to fling away the life which you, a helpless little child, made
useful, good, and happy, by the power of your own brave
will. I felt how weak, how wicked I had been, and was not
ashamed to learn of you the lesson you so unconsciously
were teaching. God bless you, Jamie, for the work you did
that day.”
“Did I do so much?” asked the boy with innocent wonder;
“I never knew it, and always thought you had grown
happier and kinder because I had learned to love you more.
I'm very glad if I did anything for you, who do so much for
us. But tell me of the book; you never would before.”
With a kindling eye Walter replied, —
“I would not tell you till all was sure; now, listen. I
wrote a story, Jamie, — a story of our lives, weaving in few
fancies of my own and leaving you unchanged, — the little
counsellor and good angel of the ambitious man's hard life.
I painted no fictitious sorrows. What I had seen and keenly
felt I could truly tell, — your cheerful patience, Bess's faithful
love, my struggles, hopes, and fears. This book, unlike
the others, was not rejected; for the simple truth, told by an
earnest pen, touched and interested. It was accepted, and
has been kindly welcomed, thanks to you, Jamie; for many
buy it to learn more of you, to weep and smile over artless
words of yours, and forget their pity in their reverence and
love for the child who taught the man to be, not what he is,
but what, with God's help, he will yet become.”
“They are very kind, and so are you, Walter, and I
not be here to see it.”
“You will, Jamie, you must; for it will be nothing without
you;” and as he spoke, the young man held the thin
hand closer in his own and looked more tenderly into the
face upon his arm.
The boy's eyes shone with a feverish light, a scarlet flush
burned on his hollow cheek, and the breath came slowly from
his parted lips, but over his whole countenance there lay a
beautiful serenity which filled his friend with hope and fear.
“Walter bid Bess put away that tiresome work; she has
sat at it all day long, never stirring but to wait on me;” and
as he spoke, a troubled look flitted across the boy's calm face.
“I shall soon be done, Jamie, and I must not think of
rest till then, for there is neither food nor fuel for the morrow.
Sleep, yourself, dear, and dream of pleasant things; I am
not very tired.”
And Bess bent closer to her work, trying to sing a little
song, that they might not guess how near the tears were to
her aching eyes.
From beneath his pillow Jamie drew a bit of bread, whispering
to his friend as he displayed it, —
“Give it to Bess; I saved it for her till you came, for
she will not take it from me, and she has eaten nothing all
this day.”
“And you, Jamie?” asked Walter, struck by the sharpened
features of the boy, and the hungry look which for a
moment glistened in his eye.
“I don't need much, you know, for I don't work like
Bess; but yet she gives me all. Oh, how can I bear to see
her working so for me, and I lying idle here!”
As he spoke, Jamie clasped his hands before his face, and
through his slender fingers streamed such tears as children
seldom shed.
It was so rare a thing for him to weep that it filled Walter
with dismay and a keener sense of his own powerlessness.
He could bear any privation for himself alone, but he could
not see them suffer. He had nothing to offer them; for
though there was seeming wealth in store for him, he was
now miserably poor. He stood a moment, looking from
brother to sister, both so dear to him, and both so plainly
showing how hard a struggle life had been to them.
With a bitter exclamation, the young man turned away and
went out into the night, muttering to himself, —
“Theyy shall not suffer; I will beg or steal first.”
And with some vague purpose stirring within him, he went
swiftly on until he reached a great thoroughfare, nearly deserted
now, but echoing occasionally to a quick step as some
one hurried home to his warm fireside.
“A little money, sir, for a sick child and a starving
woman;” and with outstretched hand Walter arrested an old
man. But he only wrapped his furs still closer and passed
on, saying sternly, —
“I have nothing for vagrants. Go to work, young man.”
A woman poorly clad in widow's weeds passed at that
moment, and, as the beggar fell back from the rich man's
path she dropped a bit of silver in his hand, saying with
true womanly compassion, —
“Heaven help you! it is all I have to give.”
“I'll beg no more,” muttered Walter, as he turned away
buring with shame and indignation; “I'll take from the
rich what the poor so freely give. God pardon me; I see
no ther way, and they must not starve.”
With a vague sense of guilt already upon him, he stole
into a more unfrequented street and slunk into the shadow
of doorway to wait for coming steps and nerve himself for
his first evil deed.
Glancing up to chide the moonlight for betraying him, he
started; for there, above the snow-clad roofs, rose the cross
upon the tower. Hastily he averted his eyes, as if they had
rested on the mild, reproachful countenance of a friend.
Far up in the wintry sky the bright symbol shone, and
from it seemed to fall a radiance, warmer than the moonlight,
clearer than the starlight, showing to that tempted heart the
darkness of the yet uncommitted wrong.
That familiar sight recalled the past; he thought of Jamie,
and seemed to hear again the childish words, uttered long
ago, “God will remember us.”
Steps came and went along the lonely street, but the dark
figure in the shadow never stirred, only stood there with bent
head, accepting the silent rebuke that shone down upon it, and
murmuring, softly,—
“God remember little Jamie, and forgive me that my love
for him led me astray.”
As Walter raised his hand to dash away the drops that
rose at the memory of the boy, his eye fell on the ring he always
wore for his dead mother's sake. He had hoped to see
it one day on Bess's hand, but now a generous thought banished
all others and with the energy of an honest purpose he
hastened to sell the ring, purchase a little food and fuel and
borrowing a warm covering of a kindly neighbor, he went
back to dispense these comforts with a satisfaction he had little
thought to feel.
The one lamp burned low; a few dying embers lay upon
the hearth, and no sound broke the silence but the steady
rustle of Bess's needle, and the echo of Jamie's hollow cough.
“Wrap it round Bess; she has given me her cloak, and
needs it more than I,—these coverings do very well;” and a he
spoke, Jamie put away the blanket Walter offered, and uppressing
a shiver, hid his purple hands beneath the old, thin
cloak.
“Here is bread, Jamie; eat for Heaven's sake, no need to
save it now;” and Walter pressed it on the boy, but he only
took a little, saying he had not much need of food and loved
to see them eat far better.
So in the cheery blaze of the rekindled fire, Bess and
Walter broke their long fast, and never saw how eagerly
Jamie gathered up the scattered crumbs, nor heard him murmur
softly, as he watched them with loving eyes,—
“There will be no cold nor hunger up in heaven, but
enough for all, — enough for all.”
“Walter, you'll be kind to Bess when I am not here?”
he whispered earnestly, as his friend came to draw his bed
within the ruddy circle of the firelight gleaming on the floor.
“I will, Jamie, kinder than a brother,” was the quick reply.
“But why ask me that with such a wistful face?”
The boy did not answer, but turned on his pillow and
kissed his sister's shadow as it flitted by.
Gray dawn was in the sky before they spoke again. Bess
slept the deep, dreamless sleep of utter weariness, her head
pillowed on her arms. Walter sat beside the bed, lost in
sweet and bitter musings, silent and motionless, fancying the
boy slept. But a low voice broke the silence, whispering
feebly.
“Walter, will you take me in your strong arms and lay
me on my little couch beside the window? I should love to
see the cross again, and it is nearly day.”
So light, so very light, the burden seemed, Walter turned his
face aside lest the boy should see the sorrowful emotion painted
there, and with a close embrace he laid him tenderly down
to watch the first ray climbing up the old gray tower.
“The frost lies so thickly on the window-panes that you
cannot see it, even when the light comes, Jamie,” said his
friend, vainly trying to gratify the boy's wish.
“The sun will melt it soon, and I can wait, — I can wait,
Walter; it's but a little while;” and Jamie, with a patient
smile, turned his face to the dim window and lay silent.
Higher and higher crept the sunshine till it shone through
the frostwork on the boy's bright head; his bird awoke and
carolled blithely, but he never stirred.
“Asleep at last, poor, tired little Jamie; I'll not wake him
till the day is warmer;” and Walter, folding the coverings
closer over the quiet figure, sat beside it, waiting till it should
wake.
“Jamie dear, look up, and see how beautifully your last
rose has blossomed in the night when least we looked for it;”
and Bess came smiling in with the one white rose, so fragrant
but so frail.
Jamie did not turn to greet her, for all frost had melted
from the boy's life now; another flower had blossomed
in the early dawn, and though the patient face upon the
pillow was bathed in sunshine, little Jamie was not there to
see it gleaming on the cross. God had remembered him.
Spring showers had made the small mound green, and
scattered flowers in the churchyard. Sister Bess sat in the
silent room alone, working still, but pausing often to wipe
away the tears that fell upon a letter on her knee.
Steps came springing up the narrow stairs and Walter
entered with a beaming face, to show the first rich earnings
of his pen, and ask her to rest from her long labor in the
shelter of his love.
“Dear Bess, what troubles you? Let me share your
sorrow and try to lighten it,” he cried with anxious tenderness,
sitting beside her on the little couch where Jamie fell
asleep.
In the frank face smiling on her, the girl's innocent eyes
his care and kindness, she forgot her womanly timidity
in her great longing for sympathy, and freely told him all.
Told him of the lover she left years ago to cling to Jamie,
and how this lover went across the sea hoping to increase his
little fortune that the helpless brother might be sheltered for
love of her. How misfortune followed him, and when she
looked to welcome back a prosperous man, there came a letter
saying that all was lost and he must begin the world anew and
win a home to offer her before he claimed the heart so faithful
to him all these years.
“He writes so tenderly and bears his disappointment
bravely for my sake; but it is very hard to see our happiness
deferred again when such a little sum would give us to each
other.”
As she ceased, Bess looked for comfort into the countenance
of her companion, never seeing through her tears how
pale it was with sudden grief, how stern with repressed emotion.
She only saw the friend whom Jamie loved and that
tie drew her toward him as to an elder brother to whom she
turned for help, unconscious then how great his own need
was.
“I never knew of this before, Bess; you kept your secret
well.” he said, trying to seem unchanged.
The color deepened in her cheek; but she answered simply,
“I never spoke of it, for words could do no good, and Jamie
grieved silently about it, for he thought it a great sacrifice,
though I looked on it as a sacred duty, and he often wearied
himself to show in many loving ways how freshly he remembered
it. My grateful little Jamie.”
And her eyes wandered to the green tree-tops tossing in
the wind, whose shadows flickered pleasantly above the child.
“Let me think a little, Bess, before I counsel you. Keep
can,” said Walter, trying to speak hopefully.
“But you come to tell me something; at least, I fancied I
saw some good tidings in your face just now. Forgive my
selfish grief, and see how gladly I will sympathize with any
joy of yours.”
“It is nothing, Bess, another time will do as well,” he
answered, eager to be gone lest he should betray what must
be kept most closely now.
“It never will be told, Bess, — never in this world,” he
sighed bitterly as he went back to his own room which never
in his darkest hours had seemed so dreary; for now the bright
hope of his life was gone.
“I have it in my power to make them happy,” he mused
as he sat alone, “but I cannot do it, for in this separation
lies my only hope. He may die or may grow weary, and
then to whom will Bess turn for comfort but to me? I will
work on, earn riches and a name, and if that hour should
come, then in her desolation I will offer all to Bess and surely
she will listen and accept. Yet it were a generous thing
to make her happiness at once, forgetful of my own. How
shall I bear to see her waiting patiently, while youth and
hope are fading slowly, and know that I might end her weary
trial and join two faithful hearts? Oh, Jamie, I wish to
Heaven I were asleep with you, freed from the temptations
that beset me. It is so easy to perceive the right, so hard
to do it.”
The sound of that familiar name, uttered despairingly,
aloud, fell with a sweet and solemn music upon Walter's car.
A flood of tender memories swept away the present, and
brought back the past. He thought of that short life, so full
of pain and yet of patience, of the sunny nature which no
strength and guide.
He thought of that last night and saw now with clearer
eyes the sacrifices and the trials silently borne for love of
Bess.
The beautiful example of the child rebuked the passion of
the man, and through the magic of affection strengthened
generous impulses and banished selfish hopes.
“I promised to be kind to Bess, and with God's help I
will keep my vow. Teach me to bear my pain, to look for
help where you found it, little Jamie;” and as he spoke, the
young man gazed up at the shining cross, striving to see in
it not merely an object of the dead boy's love, but a symbol
of consolation, hope, and faith.
“It is a noble thing to see an honest man cleave his own
heart in twain to fling away the baser part of it.”
These words came to Walter's mind and fixed the resolution
wavering there, and as his glance wandered from the
gray tower to the churchyard full of summer stillness, he
said within himself,—
“This is the hardest struggle of my life, but I will conquer
and come out from the conflict master of myself at least, and
like Jamie, try to wait until the sunshine comes again, even
if it only shine upon me, dead like him.”
It was no light task to leave the airy castles built by love
and hope, and go back cheerfully to the solitude of a life
whose only happiness for a time was in the memory of the
past. But through the weeks that bore one lover home, the
other struggled to subdue his passion, and be as generous in
his sorrow as he would have been in his joy.
It was no easy conquest; but he won the hardest of all
victories, that of self, and found in the place of banished
pride and bitterness a patient strength, and the one desire
He had truly “cleft his heart in twain and flung away the
baser part.”
A few days before the absent lover came, Walter went to
Bess, and. with a countenance whose pale serenity touched her
deeply, he laid his gift before her, saying,—
“I owe this all to Jamie; and the best use I can make of
it is to secure your happiness, as I promised him I'd try to
do. Take it and God bless you. Sister Bess.”
“And you, Walter, what will your future be if I take
this and go away to enjoy it as you would have me?” Bess
asked, with an earnestness that awoke his wonder.
“I shall work, Bess, and in that find content and consolation
for the loss of you and Jamie. Do not think of me;
this money will do me far more good in your hands than my
own. Believe me it is best to be so, therefore do not hesitate.”
Bess took it, for she had learned the cause of Walter's
restless wanderings and strange avoidance of herself of late,
and she judged wisely that the generous nature should be
gratified, and the hard-won victory rewarded by the full accomplishment
of its unselfish end. Few words expressed
her joyful thanks, but from that time Walter felt that he
held as dear a place as Jamie in her grateful heart, and was
content.
Summer flowers were blooming when Bess went from the
old home a happy wife, leaving her faithful friend alone in
the little room where Jamie lived and died.
Years passed, and Walter's pen had won for him an honored
name. Poverty and care were no longer his companions;
many homes were open to him, many hearts would
gladly welcome him, but he still lingered in the gloomy house,
of a child's grave.
But his life was rich in noble aims and charitable deeds,
and with his strong nature softened by the sharp discipline
of sorrow, and sweetened by the presence of a generous love,
he was content to dwell alone with the memory of little Jamie,
in the shadow of “the cross upon the tower.”
| On picket duty, and other tales | |