 | Dream life |  |
VII.
Peace.
IT is a dream;—fearful to be sure,—but only a
dream! Madge is true. That soul is honest; it
could not be otherwise. God never made it to be
false; He never made the sun for darkness.
And before the evening has waned to midnight,
sweet day has broken on your gloom;—Madge is
folded to your bosom;—sobbing fearfully;—not for
guilt, or any shadow of guilt, but for the agony she
reads upon your brow, and in your low sighs.
The mystery is all cleared by a few lightning words
from her indignant lips; and her whole figure trembles,
as she shrinks within your embrace, with the thought
of that great evil, that seemed to shadow you. The
villain has sought by every art to beguile her into appearance
so wound her delicacy, as to take away the courage for
return: he has even wrought upon her affection for
you, as his master-weapon: a skilfully-contrived story
of some accident that had befallen you, had wrought
upon her—to the sudden, and silent leave of home.
But he has failed. At the first suspicion of his falsity,
her dignity and virtue shivered all his malice. She
shudders at the bare thought of that fiendish scheme,
which has so lately broken on her view.
“Oh, Clarence, Clarence, could you for one moment
believe this of me?”
“Dear Madge, forgive me, if a dreamy horror did
for an instant palsy my better thought;—it is gone
utterly;—it will never—never come again!”
And there she leans, with her head pillowed on
your shoulder, the same sweet angel, that has led
you in the way of light; and who is still your blessing,
and your pride.
He—and you forbear to name his name—is gone;—
flying vainly from the consciousness of guilt, with the
curse of Cain upon him,—hastening toward the day,
when Satan shall clutch his own!
A heavenly peace descends upon you that night;—
all the more sacred and calm, for the fearful agony
that has gone before. A Heaven that seemed lost, is
yours. A love that you had almost doubted, is beyond
frenzy, you had dared to question, you worship now,
with blushes of shame. You thank God, for this great
goodness, as you never thanked him for any earthly
blessing before; and with this twin gratitude lying on
your hearts, and clearing your face to smiles, you live
on together the old life of joy, and of affection.
Again with brimming nectar, the years fill up their
vases. Your children grow into the same earnest
joyousness, and with the same home faith, which
lightened upon your young dreams; and toward which,
you seem to go back, as you riot with them in their
Christmas joys, or upon the velvety lawn of June.
Anxieties indeed overtake you; but they are those
anxieties which only the selfish would avoid—anxieties
that better the heart, with a great weight of tenderness.
It may be, that your mischievous Frank runs wild
with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours
are long, which wait his coming. It may be that
your heart echoes in silence, the mother's sobs, as she
watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his
very neglect, excess of love.
Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly,
which makes you tremble for her life; the mother's
tears are checked that she may not deepen your grief;
and her care guards the little sufferer, like a Providence.
breathing wakes the chamber with ominous sound;
the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests with fond
sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness;
her hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow,
all beaded with the heats of fever; the straggling,
gray light of morning breaks through the crevices
of the closed blinds,—bringing stir, and bustle to the
world, but, in your home,—lighting only the darkness.
Hope sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on
Faith in God; and her prayer, and her placid look
of submission,—more than all your philosophy,—add
strength to your faltering courage.
But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take
on bloom again; she knows you; she presses your
hand; she draws down your cheek to her parched
lip; she kisses you, and smiles. The mother's brow
loses its shadow; day dawns within, as well as without;
and on bended knees, God is thanked!
Perhaps poverty faces you;—your darling schemes
break down. One by one, with failing heart, you
strip the luxuries from life. But the sorrow which
oppresses you, is not the selfish sorrow which the
lone man feels; it is far nobler; its chiefest mourning
is over the despoiled home. Frank must give up his
promised travel; Madge must lose her favorite pony;
The home itself, endeared by so many scenes of
happiness, and by so many of suffering—must be
given up. It is hard—very hard to tear away your
wife, from the flowers, the birds, the luxuries, that she
has made so dear.
Now, she is far stronger than you. She contrives
new joys; she wears a holy calm; she cheers by
a new hopefulness; she buries even the memory of
luxury, in the riches of the humble home, that her
wealth of heart endows. Her soul, catching radiance
from that Heavenly world, where her hope lives,
kindles amid the growing shadows, and sheds balm
upon the little griefs,—like the serene moon, slanting
the dead sun's life, upon the night!
Courage wakes in the presence of those dependent
on your toil. Love arms your hand, and quickens
your brain. Resolutions break large from the swelling
soul. Energy leaps into your action, like light. Gradually
you bring back into your humble home, a
few traces of the luxury that once adorned it. That
wife whom it is your greatest pleasure to win to
smiles,—wears a half sad look, as she meets these
proofs of love; she fears that you are perilling too
much, for her pleasure.
—For the first time in life you deceive her. You
have won wealth again; you now step firmly upon your
her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with
Frank alone, in the secret.
You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as
far as may be, with the old luxuries; a new harp is in
the place of that one which beguiled so many hours of
joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the
window; her birds hang, and warble their melody, where
they warbled it before. A pony—like as possible to
the old—is there for Madge; a fête is secretly contrived
upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar
books, upon the parlor table.
The birth-day of your own Madge, is approaching:
—a fête you never pass by, without home-rejoicings.
You drive over with her, upon that morning, for another
look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,—
but she yields to your wish. An old servant,—whom
you had known in better days—throws open the gates.
—“It is too—too sad,” says Madge—“let us go
back, Clarence, to our own home;—we are happy
there.”
—“A little farther, Madge.”
The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre
of so many pleasures; the children gambol as of old,
and pick flowers. But the mother checks them.
“They are not ours now, my children!”
You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are
You feel the hand of Madge trembling upon
your arm; she is struggling with her weakness.
A tidy waiting woman shows you into the old parlor:—there
is a harp; and there too, such books as
we loved to read.
Madge is overcome; now, she entreats:—“Let us
go away, Clarence!” and she hides her face.
—“Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours—all
yours!”
She looks up in your face; she sees your look of
triumph; she catches sight of Frank bursting in at the
old hall-door, all radiant with joy.
—“Frank!—Clarence!”—the tears forbid any
more.
“God bless you, Madge! God bless you!”
And thus, in peace and in joy, Manhood passes on
into the third season of our life—even as golden
Autumn, sinks slowly into the tomb of Winter.
| Dream life | |