 | Dream life |  |
II.
What is Left.
BUT much as there is gone of life, and of its
joys,—very much remains;—very much in
earnest, and very much more in hope. Still, you see
visions, and you dream dreams, of the times that are
to come.
Your home, and heart are left; within that home,
the old Bible holds its wonted place, which was the
monitor of your boyhood; and now, more than ever,
it prompts those reverent reaches of the spirit, which
go beyond even the track of dreams.
That cherished Madge, the partner of your life and
joy, still lingers, though her step is feeble, and her eyes
are dimmed;—not, as once, attracting you by any
outward show of beauty; your heart glowing through
to the affections. Your hearts are knit together by a
habit of growth, and a unanimity of desire. There
is less to remind of the vanities of earth, and more to
quicken the hopes of a time, when body yields to
spirit.
Your own poor, battered hulk, wants no jaunty-trimmed
craft for consort; but twin of heart, and soul,
as you are twin of years, you float tranquilly toward
that haven, which lies before us all.
Your children, now almost verging on maturity,
bless your hearth, and home. Not one is gone.
Frank indeed, that wild fellow of a youth, who has
wrought your heart into perplexing anxieties again and
again, as you have seen the wayward dashes of his
young blood,—is often away. But his heart yet
centres, where yours centres; and his absence is only
a nearer, and bolder strife, with that fierce world,
whose circumstances, every man of force, and energy,
is born to conquer.
His return, from time to time, with that proud
figure of opening manliness, and that full flush of health,
speaks to your affections, as you could never have
believed it would. It is not for a man, who is the
father of a man, to show any weakness of the heart,
or any over-sensitiveness, in those ties which bind him
to his kin. And yet—yet, as you sit by your fire-side,
that proud figure of a man,—who calls you—`father,'
—and as you see his fond, and loving attentions to
that one, who has been your partner in all anxieties,
and joys,—there is a throbbing within your bosom
that makes you almost wish him young again:—
that you might embrace him now, as when he warbled
in your rejoicing ear, those first words of love!—Ah,
how little does a son know the secret and craving
tenderness of a parent;—how little conception has he,
of those silent bursts of fondness, and of joy, which
attend his coming, and which crown his parting!
There is young Madge too,—dark-eyed, tall, with a
pensive shadow resting on her face,—the very image
of refinement, and of delicacy. She is thoughtful;
—not breaking out, like the hoyden, flax-haired Nelly,
into bursts of joy, and singing,—but stealing upon
your heart, with a gentle and quiet tenderness, that
diffuses itself throughout the household, like a soft
zephyr of summer.
There are friends too yet left, who come in upon
your evening hours; and light up the loitering time
with dreamy story of the years that are gone. How
eagerly you listen to some gossipping veteran friend,
who with his deft words, calls up the thread of some
bye-gone years of life; and with what a careless, yet
grateful recognition, you lapse, as it were, into the
hospitable blaze, the stir, the joy, and the pride of your
lost manhood.
The children of friends too, have grown upon your
march; and come to welcome you with that reverent
deference, which always touches the heart of age.
That wild boy Will.,—the son of a dear friend—who
but a little while ago, was worrying you with his
boyish pranks, has now shot up into tall, and graceful
youth; and evening after evening, finds him making
part of your little household group.
—Does the fond old man think that he is all the
attraction!
It may be that in your dreamy speculations, about
the future of your children (for still you dream) you
think that Will., may possibly become the husband
of the sedate and kindly Madge. It worries you to
find Nelly teasing him as she does; that mad hoyden
will never be quiet; she provokes you excessively;
—and yet, she is a dear creature; there is no meeting
those laughing blue eyes of hers, without a smile, and
an embrace!
It pleases you however to see the winning frankness,
with which Madge always receives Will. And with a
little of your old vanity of observation, you trace out
the growth of their dawning attachment. It provokes
you, to find Nelly breaking up their quiet tête-à-têtes
to some saunter in the garden, or to some mad gallop
over the hills.
At length, upon a certain summer's day, Will. asks
to see you. He approaches with a doubtful, and disturbed
look; you fear that wild Nell has been teasing
him with her pranks. Yet he wears, not so much an
offended look, as one of fear. You wonder if it ever
happened to you, to carry your hat in just that timid
manner, and to wear such a shifting expression of the
eye, as poor Will. wears just now? You wonder if it
ever happened to you, to begin to talk with an old
friend of your father's, in just that abashed way? Will.
must have fallen into some sad scrape.—Well, he is
a good fellow, and you will help him out of it!
You look up as he goes on with his story;—you
grow perplexed yourself;—you scarce believe your own
ears.
—“Nelly?”—Is Will. talking of Nelly?
“Yes, sir,—Nelly.”
—“What!—and you have told all this to Nelly
—that you love her?”
“I have, sir.”
“And she says—”
“That I must speak with you, sir.”
“Bless my soul!—But she's a good girl;”—and the
old man wipes his eyes.
—“Nell!—are you there?”
And she comes,—blushing, lingering, yet smiling
through it all.
—“And you could deceive your old father, Nell
—” (very fondly.)
Nelly only clasps your hand in both of hers.
“And so you loved Will., all the while?”
—Nelly only stoops, to drop a little kiss of pleading
on your forehead.
—“Well, Nelly” (it is hard to speak roundly),
“give me your hand;—here Will.,—take it:—she's a
wild girl;—be kind to her, Will.?”
“God bless you, sir!”
And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom.
—“Not here,—not here, now, Nell!—Will. is
yonder!”
—Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,—who
would have thought that your merry face, covered such
heart of tenderness!
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