 | Dream life |  |
VI.
A Dream of Darkness.
IS our life a sun, that it should radiate light and
heat forever? Do not the calmest, and brightest
days of autumn, show clouds that drift their ragged
edges over the golden disc; and bear down swift, with
their weight of vapors, until the whole sun's surface is
shrouded;—and you can see no shadow of tree, or
flower upon the land, because of the greater, and
gulphing shadow of the cloud?
Will not life bear me out;—will not truth, earnest
and stern, around me, make good the terrible imagination
that now comes swooping heavily, and darkly,
upon my brain?
You are living in a little village, not far away from
the city. It is a graceful, and luxurious home that you
winter; and bowers of blossoms sweeten it through all
the summer. You know, each day of your return from
the town, where first you will catch sight of that
graceful figure, flitting like a shadow of love, beneath
the trees: you know well, where you will meet the
joyous, and noisy welcome of stout Frank, and of
tottling Nelly. Day after day, and week after week,
they fail not.
A friend sometimes attends you; and a friend to
you, is always a friend to Madge. In the city, you fall
in once more with your old acquaintance Dalton;—
the graceful, winning, yet dissolute man that his youth
promised. He wishes to see your cottage home.
Your heart half hesitates: yet it seems folly to cherish
distrust of a boon companion, in so many of your
revels.
Madge receives him with that sweet smile, which
welcomes all your friends. He gains the heart of
Frank, by talking of his toys, and of his pigeons; and
he wins upon the tenderness of the mother, by his
attentions to the child. Even you, repent of your
passing shadow of dislike, and feel your heart warming
toward him, as he takes little Nelly in his arms, and
provokes her joyous prattle.
Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your
friend: he renews, at your solicitation, his visit: he
your distrust.
Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life:
the accomplishments of a man of the world are
almost new to her: she listens with eagerness to
Dalton's graphic stories of foreign fêtes, and luxury:
she is charmed with his clear, bold voice, and with his
manly execution of little operatic airs.
—She is beautiful—that wife who has made your
heart whole, by its division—fearfully beautiful! And
she is not cold, or impassive: her heart though fond,
and earnest, is yet human:—we are all human. The
accomplishments and graces of the world must needs
take hold upon her fancy. And a fear creeps over you,
that you dare not whisper,—that those graces may
cast into the shade, your own yearning, and silent
tenderness.
But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no
right to cherish. She takes pleasure in the society
of Dalton,—what right have you, to say her—nay?
His character indeed is not altogether such as you could
wish; but will it not be selfish to tell her even this?
Will it not be even worse, and show taint of a lurking
suspicion, which you know would wound her grievously?
You struggle with your distrust, by meeting him more
kindly than ever: yet, at times, there will steal over
you a sadness,—which that dear Madge detects, and
the touching kindness of sympathy. Her look, and
manner kill all your doubt; and you show that it
is gone, and piously conceal the cause, by welcoming in
gayer tones than ever, the man who has fostered it, by
his presence.
Business calls you away to a great distance from
home: it is the first long parting of your real manhood.
And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk amid those
tearful embraces?—Not one,—thank God,—not one!
Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased
devotion; and the embraces you bid her give
to the sweet ones of your little flock, tell of the calmness,
and sufficiency of your love. Her letters too, are
running over with affection:—what though she mentions
the frequent visits of Dalton, and tells stories of
his kindness and attachment? You feel safe in her
strength: and yet—yet there is a brooding terror that
rises out of your knowledge of Dalton's character.
And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness,
now that you are away, with even a hint of what would
crush her delicate nature?
What you know to be love, and what you fancy to
be duty, struggle long: but love conquers. And with
sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, you await
your return. That return will be speedier than you
think.
You receive one day a letter: it is addressed in the
hand of a friend, who is often at the cottage, but who
has rarely written to you. What can have tempted
him now? Has any harm come near your home?
No wonder your hands tremble at the opening of that
sheet;—no wonder that your eyes run like lightning
over the hurried lines. Yet there is little in them—
very little. The hand is stout and fair. It is a calm
letter,—a friendly letter; but it is short—terribly short.
It bids you come home—`at once!'
—And you go. It is a pleasant country you have
to travel through; but you see very little of the country.
It is a dangerous voyage perhaps, you have to make;
but you think very little of the danger. The creaking
of the timbers, and the lashing of the waves, are quieting
music, compared with the storm of your raging
fears. All the while, you associate Dalton with the
terror that seems to hang over you; and yet,—your
trust in Madge, is true as Heaven!
At length you approach that home;—there lies
your cottage lying sweetly upon its hill-side; and the
autumn winds are soft; and the maple-tops sway
gracefully, all clothed in the scarlet of their frost-dress.
Once again, as the sun sinks behind the mountain with
a trail of glory, and the violet haze tints the grey
clouds, like so many robes of angels,—you take heart
and courage; and with firm reliance on the Providence
or in heart,—your fears spread out, and vanish with
the waning twilight.
She is not at the cottage door to meet you; she
does not expect you; and yet your bosom heaves, and
your breathing is quick. Your friend meets you, and
shakes your hand.—“Clarence,” he says, with the
tenderness of an old friend,—“be a man!”
Alas, you are a man;—with a man's heart, and a
man's fear, and a man's agony! Little Frank comes
bounding toward you joyously—yet under traces of
tears:—“Oh, Papa, Mother is gone!”
—“Gone!”—And you turn to the face of your
friend;—it is well he is near by, or you would have
fallen.
He can tell you very little; he has known the
character of Dalton; he has seen with fear his assiduous
attentions—tenfold multiplied since your leave.
He has trembled for the issue: this very morning he
observed a travelling carriage at the door;—they drove
away together. You have no strength to question him.
You see that he fears the worst:—he does not know
Madge, so well as you.
—And can it be? Are you indeed widowed
with that most terrible of widowhoods?—Is your wife
living,—and yet—lost! Talk not to such a man of
laugh at your mimicry of grief.
—All is blackness; whichever way you turn, it is
the same; there is no light; your eye is put out;
your soul is desolate forever! The heart, by which
you had grown up into the full stature of joy, and blessing,
is rooted out of you, and thrown like something
loathsome, at which the carrion dogs of the world
scent, and snuffle!
They will point at you, as the man who has lost all
that he prized; and she has stolen it, whom he prized
more than what was stolen! And he, the accursed
miscreant — But no, it can never be! Madge
is as true as Heaven!
Yet she is not there: whence comes the light that
is to cheer you?
—Your children?
Aye, your children,—your little Nelly,—your noble
Frank,—they are yours;—doubly, trebly, tenfold yours,
now that she, their mother, is a mother no more to
them, forever!
Aye, close your doors; shut out the world;—draw
close your curtains;—fold them to your heart,—your
crushed, bleeding, desolate heart! Lay your forehead
to the soft cheek of your noble boy;—beware, beware
how you dampen that damask cheek with your scalding
tears:—yet you cannot help it;—they fall—great
to your bosom!
“Father, why do you cry so?” says Frank, with the
tears of dreadful sympathy starting from those eyes of
childhood.
—“Why, Papa?”—mimes little Nelly.
—Answer them if you dare! Try it;—what
words—blundering, weak words,—choked with agony,
—leading no where,—ending in new, and convulsive
clasps of your weeping, motherless children!
Had she gone to her grave, there would have been
a holy joy—a great, and swelling grief indeed,—but
your poor heart would have found a rest in the quiet
churchyard; and your feelings rooted in that cherished
grave, would have stretched up toward Heaven their
delicate leaves, and caught the dews of His grace, who
watcheth the lilies. But now,—with your heart cast
under foot, or buffeted on the lips of a lying world,—
finding no shelter, and no abiding place—alas, we
do guess at infinitude, only by suffering!
—Madge, Madge! can this be so? Are you not
still the same, sweet, guileless child of Heaven?
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