 | Dream life |  |
III.
Manly Hope.
YOU are at home again;—not your own home,
that is gone; but at the home of Nelly, and
of Frank. The city heats of summer drive you to the
country. You ramble, with a little kindling of old
desires and memories, over the hill sides that once
bounded your boyish vision. Here, you netted the
wild rabbits, as they came out at dusk, to feed; there,
upon that tall chesnut, you cruelly maimed your first
captive squirrel. The old maples are even now scarred
with the rude cuts you gave them, in sappy March.
You sit down upon some height, overlooking the
valley where you were born; you trace the faint,
silvery line of river; you detect by the leaning elm,
your old bathing place upon the Saturdays of Summer.
which were famous for their nuts. Your rambling,
and saddened vision roams over the houses; it traces
the familiar chimney stacks; it searches out the low-lying
cottages; it dwells upon the gray roof, sleeping
yonder under the sycamores.
Tears swell in your eye, as you gaze; you cannot
tell whence, or why they come. Yet they are tears
eloquent of feeling. They speak of brother children—
of boyish glee,—of the flush of young health,—of a
mother's devotion,—of the home affections,—of the
vanities of life,—of the wasting years, of the Death
that must shroud what friends remain, as it has
shrouded what friends have gone,—and of that Great
Hope, beaming on your sered manhood dimly, from
the upper world!
Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life:
there is no fear of coming want; health beats strong
in your veins; you have learned to hold a place in the
world, with a man's strength, and a man's confidence.
And yet in the view of those sweet scenes which
belonged to early days, when neither strength, confidence,
nor wealth were yours, days never to come
again,—a shade of melancholy broods upon your
spirit, and covers with its veil all that fierce pride
which your worldly wisdom has wrought.
You visit again, with Frank, the country homestead
lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing toward womanhood,
wears yet through her darkened life, the same
air of placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in
Heaven. The boys whom you astounded with your
stories of books are gone, building up now with steady
industry the queen cities of our new Western land. The
old clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under
his sounding board; he sleeps beneath a brown stone
slab in the church yard. The stout deacon is dead;
his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall
chorister sings yet: but they have now a bass-viol—
handled by a new schoolmaster, in place of his tuning
fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his
voice.
Once more you meet at the home of Nelly,—the
blue eyed Madge. The sixpence is all forgotten; you
cannot tell where your half of it is gone. Yet she is
beautiful—just budding into the full ripeness of womanhood.
Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope
beaming in them, like angel's looks. Her motions have
a native grace, and freedom, that no culture can
bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and
honesty, that could never nature guile.
You had thought, after your gay experiences of the
world, to meet her with a kind condescension, as an
old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in her eye,
that in her air, which tells of a high womanly dignity,
which can only be met on equal ground. Your pride
is piqued. She has known—she must know your
history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked
and submissive appreciation of your gifts, as a man of
the world.
She meets your happiest compliments with a very
easy indifference; she receives your elegant civilities
with a very assured brow. She neither courts your
society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke
any special attention. And only when your old-self
glows in some casual kindness to Nelly, does her look
beam with a flush of sympathy.
This look touches you. It makes you ponder on
the noble heart that lives in Madge. It makes you
wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor
and the honesty of a glowing youth, is swallowed up
in the flash and splendor of the world. A half-regret
chases over you at night-fall, when solitude pierces you
with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at
morning, the regret dies, in the glitter of ambitious
purposes.
The summer months linger; and still you linger
with them. Madge is often with Nelly; and Madge
is never less than Madge. You venture to point your
attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the
of your life.
Strange feelings come over you;—feelings like half-forgotten
memories—musical—dreamy—doubtful. You
have seen a hundred faces more brilliant than that
of Madge; you have pressed a hundred jewelled hands
that have returned a half-pressure to yours. You do
not exactly admire;—to love, you have forgotten;—
you only—linger!
It is a soft autumn evening, and the harvest moon is
red and round over the eastern skirt of woods. You
are attending Madge to that little cottage home, where
lives that gentle and doting mother, who in the midst
of comparative poverty, cherishes that refined delicacy,
which never comes to a child, but by inheritance.
Madge has been passing the day with Nelly. Something—it
may be the soft autumn air wafting toward
you the freshness of young days,—moves you to speak,
as you have not ventured to speak,—as your vanity
has not allowed you to speak before.
“You remember, Madge, (you have guarded this
sole token of boyish intimacy) our split sixpence?”
“Perfectly:” it is a short word to speak, and there
is no tremor in her tone—not the slightest.
“You have it yet?”
“I dare say, I have it somewhere:” no tremor now:
she is very composed.
“That was a happy time:” very great emphasis on
the word happy.
“Very happy:”—no emphasis anywhere.
“I sometimes wish I might live it over again.”
“Yes?”—inquiringly.
“There are after all no pleasures in the world like
those.”
“No?”—inquiringly again.
You thought you had learned to have language at
command: you never thought, after so many years
schooling of the world, that your pliant tongue would
play you truant. Yet now,—you are silent.
The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of
cloud, and the air is soft as May. The cottage is in
sight. Again you risk utterance:—
“You must live very happily here.”
“I have very kind friends:”—the very, is emphasized.
“I am sure Nelly loves you very much.”
“Oh, I believe it!”—with great earnestness.
You are at the cottage door:—
“Good night, Maggie,”—very feelingly.
“Good night, Clarence,”—very kindly; and she
draws her hand coyly, and half tremulously, from your
somewhat fevered grasp.
You stroll away dreamily,—watching the moon,—
half pleased,—half hopeful.
You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing
with a certain wild sense of shame, to watch the light
gleaming in the cottage. You linger in the shadows
of the trees, until you catch a glimpse of her figure,
gliding past the window. You bear the image home
with you. You are silent on your return. You retire
early;—but you do not sleep early.
—If you were only as you were:—if it were not
too late! If Madge could only love you, as you know
she will, and must love one manly heart, there would be
a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late!
You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is
very prudent. “Madge is a dear girl,”—she says.
Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to be
too much a man of the world!
You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try
to drown old memories in its blaze, and its vanities.
Your lot seems cast, beyond all change; and you task
yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the
silence, and the toil of your office hours, a strange
desire broods over your spirit;—a desire for more of
manliness,—that manliness which feels itself a protector
of loving, and trustful innocence.
You look around upon the faces in which you have
smiled unmeaning smiles:—there is nothing there to
to court you by flattering your vanity—by retailing the
praises of what you may do well,—by odious familiarity,
—by brazen proffer of friendship; but you see in it
only the emptiness, and the vanity, which you have
studied to enjoy.
Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary
days and nights;—in which life hovers doubtfully, and
the lips babble secrets that you cherish. It is astonishing
how disease clips a man from the artificialities of
the world! Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning,
writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to the universe of
souls by only natural bonds. The factitious ties of
wealth, of place, of reputation, vanish from his bleared
eyes; and the earnest heart, deep under all, craves
only—heartiness!
The old craving of the office silence comes back:—
not with the proud wish only—of being a protector, but
—of being protected. And whatever may be the trust
in that beneficent Power, who `chasteneth whom he
loveth,'—there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward
some one, whose love—most, and whose duty—least,
would call her to your side;—whose soft hands would
cool the fever of yours,—whose step would wake a
throb of joy,—whose voice would tie you to life, and
whose presence would make the worst of Death—an
Adieu!
As you gain strength once more, you go back to
Nelly's home. Her kindness does not falter; every
care and attention belong to you there. Again your
eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face,
wearing an even gentler expression, as she sees you
sitting pale and feeble by the old hearth-stone. She
brings flowers—for Nelly: you beg Nelly to place
them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet
the only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You
love those flowers.
After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields.
You linger until nightfall. You pass by the cottage
where Madge lives. It is your pleasantest walk. The
trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows are
softest; the flowers are thickest.
It is strange—this feeling in you. It is not the feeling
you had for Laura Dalton. It does not even
remind of that. That was an impulse; but this is
growth. That was strong; but this is—strength. You
catch sight of her little notes to Nelly; you read them
over and over; you treasure them; you learn them by
heart. There is something in the very writing, that
touches you.
You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble;—and
that meet a half-trembling tone in reply.
She is very good.
—If it were not too late!
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