 | My third book |  |
Joseph Thorne—his Calling.
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment—born and dying
With the bless'd tone that made me!
BYRON (Manfred).
Those strings are heart-strings, and the sounds they utter—
Be silent when you hear them—are the groanings
Of uttermost pain, the sighings of great sorrow,
Voices from out the depths.
ANONYMOUS.
NEVER have I heard any thing so like to the musical,
half-uttered wails of a prisoned spirit, as the
sad, sweet complaints of Ole Bull's violin. Sometimes
the spirit lingers tenderly over the memories of old
hopes—hopes that long ago faded into memories—and
its tones are not all mournful, for a thrill from the past
joy trembles through them. Then again the spirit is
tortured. It sobs. It shrieks. Fain it would be delivered
from its prison-house. Then, hopeless, it sighs
itself into silence.
In one of these pauses a story came back to me; a
mournful tale of one who died young; a story I used
to like to dream over in other days, imagining to myself
how every word that told of a dead hope and a
dead love had been spoken. The very scent of lilacs
and laburnums haunted my fancy. I saw the old farmyard;
the June twilight, so long and bright; the dewbeaded
flowers and grass, and the trees, all in blossom,
shaking their odorous boughs downward, over the
heads of Joseph Thorne and pretty Mabel Emerson.
Can any one describe a lovely woman? Say that
she has blue eyes, and light hair, and a sweet mouth,
and it might apply equally to fifty blondes whom you
may chance to know, of entirely varying character. I
think one gains a truer estimate of the nature of beauty
Thorne, unknown to himself, was a poet. He had
known Mabel all his life, and he said that seeing her
made him think of long summer days, when the blue
sky looks not only bright, but deep, and still, and solemn;
of lovely flowers, growing all alone in desert
places; of a rippling stream, with the stars shining on
it; but most, oh, most of all, of sweet music. Perhaps,
however, he was the only one who had ever
looked into her heart; ever seen, beneath her gay,
smiling exterior, the deep-flowing fountains of tenderness
and self-sacrifice. Most persons thought her
merely a pleasant, light-hearted maiden, whose presence,
like a sunbeam, always carried brightness with
it, and to whom sorrow and weariness were unknown.
Her mother had died in her infancy, and her father,
the richest and busiest farmer in all Westvale, had
never found time to learn any thing of her inner nature.
Perhaps he was not even capable of appreciating
her. It was enough for him that she was well
clothed and well schooled; that her bright face was
always ready to welcome him home at night, her dextrous
hands to preside over his early breakfast. Nor
had Mabel any female confidants. Kindly and gentle
to all, there was a maidenly shyness and reserve underlying
her nature which made it impossible for her
to unveil to careless eyes the altar of her heart, the
very holy of holies, where the love of which she was
capable, the dreams and fancies so brightly tinged with
the glory of her youth, all lay an unclaimed sacrifice,
till the heaven-elected priest should come, and her
whole being should acknowledge him and do him reverence.
Like herself, Joseph Thorne was bereft of one parent,
but his mother, a true, pure woman, had been
spared to him. He had grown up from childhood
with one strong, all-absorbing passion. He worshiped
music. The earliest delight he could remember was
the low, plaintive interludes of the flute and viol between
the singing at church, or his mother's voice as
she caroled the ballads of her girlhood.
The first purchase he ever made, with money for
which he had worked indefatigably at odd jobs, was a
small violin. He had a marvelous delicacy and aptitude
of touch, and, as he grew older, a singular power
of improvisation. He talked through his violin. It
uttered all the griefs of his lonely boyhood; all those
vague longings that trouble the heart of an imaginative
youth after power and fame, or a dim, undefinable
greatness and goodness shining afar off, like the
pale beauty of a half-hidden statue.
In all these dreams he was to be a musician. In
that way he was to draw near the far-off good. His
little violin was to talk to many hearts. The world
should hear its cry and obey its teaching. He would
do a good work—be a master among men. With all
these visions his mother fully sympathized; nay, her
simple, unworldly heart was as fully imbued with faith
in them as his own. They were poor, but she managed
to send him to school all through his boyhood,
and afterward to keep herself so neat and comfortable
that he should never see she wanted for any thing, that
no care for her might ever disturb his progress.
As I said, he had always known Mabel Emerson.
As a child he had led her to and from school, or drawn
her over the drifts on his little sled. She was dearer
his violin. She was not yet seventeen when he had
learned to place her even before these. As a child,
she clung to him with caressing, childish fondness; as
a maiden, she loved him with all the strength of her
heart. She recognized in him the consecrated high-priest
of her life. For him the altar was unveiled, and
he looked unchidden upon all the thoughts and fancies
of her innocent soul. She possessed, what to such
a nature as his was more than all things else, entire
faith in him. She believed in his power to do great
things; to be not only the noblest of men, but the first
of musicians; and it was very soothing to him, so poor,
so proud, so sensitive, to turn from the world to her;
to be comforted by the singleness of her devotion, the
implicitness of her trust. Yet it was many months,
even after they each believed themselves dearer to the
other than any thing else on earth, before any binding
vows of love were spoken. Such utterances are of
slow growth in a mind so dreamy and sensitive as Joseph
Thorne's. The uncertainty of her girlish ways
was so sweet—the coming and going of her delicate
color—the fluttering of her fingers when he took them
in his own. He hesitated to exchange all this even
for the assurance that she would be his wife.
But the charmed hour came at last. I think every
human life that is worth living has its hour of destiny;
its one golden number in the twenty-four, at whose
chiming is ushered in every important change, whether
of joy or sorrow. To some it is morning, rosy and
bright with sunrise and sparkling dew, and vocal with
bird-songs. Others find it at high noon—the zenith
of power, and pride, and passion, when the sun woos
bold and daring souls recognize a peculiar heritage.
For others still—men and women of sober, thoughtful,
mysterious lives, half superstitious, owning a ready allegiance
to the unseen—the hour of fate is the solemn
noon of night. For Joseph Thorne, and such as he, it
was twilight. On a summer twilight had he been
born, and on a summer twilight he told his love.
They stood—those two young things, for whom life
and sorrow were still invested with a sweet, serious,
half-melancholy charm—for whom the dark days had
not yet risen—under the trees of Farmer Emerson's
old front yard. The balmy summer air was burdened
with the fragrance of blossoms. The sunset clouds
were like that hour of their two lives, all couleur de rose,
and the chimes of the village bells, mellowed by distance,
rung out a pleasant chorus—a sort of consecrated
amen to their plighted vows. In that hour no new
tale was told—both had been fully satisfied before that
they were beloved; the very words were the sweet old
words that have trembled all along the discords of so
many centuries of years upon so many loved and loving
lips.
But their utterance changed the whole current of
Joseph Thorne's life. They made it necessary to him,
for he possessed a high sense of honor, to go the next
day into the presence of Farmer Emerson, and, telling
his story this time to ears that would not be sympathetic,
to ask for his Mabel's hand.
It was a terrible ordeal to the young, sensitive musician.
He had an intuitive knowledge of the farmer's
character. Instinctively he felt that this busy, energetic,
matter-of-fact man would look upon him and his
by Mabel's solemn pledge that nothing on earth
should ever have power to change her love, fortified
anew by the soft touch of his mother's fingers upon
his hair—his mother, to whom he confided every thing
—and her whispered, “God bless you, my son, for you
have been a good boy all the days of your life,” he
sought the man in whose hands lay his destiny.
It was just after dinner. He knew Mr. Emerson
would be resting, as was his habit, on the wooden settee,
under the porch at his front door. He walked
into the yard with desperate courage and approached
him. He was kindly received, and invited to sit
down.
“I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Emerson.”
“Well, my young friend, what is it? Any assistance
about getting into business? I will do all I can
for you, gladly, were it only for the sake of your dead
father, as good a neighbor and as honest a man as ever
sat in Westvale meeting-house.”
“No, sir, it is not that;” and Joseph plunged bravely
in medias res. “I love your daughter, and she loves
me; will you consent that she shall be my wife?”
Wide opened the farmer's eyes in wonder. “Your
wife! my daughter Mabel! What are your prospects?
What is your business? What would you
keep her on?”
Joseph's tones faltered. “I did not mean just at
present, sir. We will be satisfied now with your consent
to our engagement. I hope to be a musician. I
think that is my true calling. For nothing else have
I so much talent; in nothing else am I so happy.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then the
yet it seemed almost sad.
“I am sorry—I am truly sorry. Mabel is like her
mother, and if she loves you she will not love lightly;
but, if such is the life you have marked out, I can not
give her to you. I do not care so much for money.
It is a good thing, though I would let her marry without
it; but a musician! a fiddler! It is an idle, wandering,
useless life: I speak to you frankly. No good
will come of it. I can not give her to you.”
A wandering, useless life! Alas! Joseph Thorne,
where were your lofty dreams, your high hopes now?
You that had aspired to talk to the world through
your instrument, to sound upon its delicate strings the
awakening calls to a higher, purer life—you to whom
this had seemed the noblest of missions. Small wonder
your voice faltered as you asked,
“Can you, then, give me no hope?”
“Yes, I can give you one hope—one test of your
love for Mabel. She is my only child; I would not
cross her lightly. If you will give up these vagaries
about music, and become a practical working-man, you
shall have her. I will take you on my own land, under
my own eye, and when I think you competent to
manage for yourself, you shall marry her, and I will
give you the Widow Sikes's farm for a wedding-portion.
There isn't a snugger little place, or one under
better cultivation in the state; and you'll be close by
home too. But I am a man of my word; and, unless
you give up this foolery about the music, you shall
never have Mabel. If you want time to decide, you
can take three days.”
“I will give you my answer in that time;” and, bowing
yard with crushed hopes.
He made no attempt to see Mabel. He went home.
His mother read the sorrow on his face, but she was
one of those rare women who know when to keep silence.
Heavy as her heart was, she asked no questions.
He went into his own room and sat down by
the window. He took his violin, which lay upon a
stand beside him. He had been accustomed to translate
into music all his griefs, but now that the first real
trial of his life had come upon him, its chords seemed
dumb and powerless to comfort. He bowed his head
over it, and tried to think.
Mabel and music—twin inspirations of his life—how
could he give either of them up? No one knew—no
one could know—what this gift, which he had fondly
deemed his calling, had been to him. Something else
he might, indeed, make his business, his profession,
but it would be only a profession—a living falsehood.
To this only God had called him. His soul was full
of a light, a heaven-bestowed revelation. The world
had need of it. How, save through this voice of music,
could he give it utterance?
At one moment he had well-nigh resolved to cling
to his chosen vocation through every thing. He would
go out into the world, and do his duty manfully. This
great world should recognize him. He would do it
good. But he must grow old; and there rose before
him a picture of a lonely, loveless old age; a hearth
which no woman's care made bright; a fireside where
no wife's sweet presence, no calm brow and holy eyes
would linger beside him; a silent house, where no children's
light footfall pattered along the floor, no little
At this picture the humanity of his nature veiled its
face, and uttered a wail which would not be quieted.
His love was mightier than his genius. He could not
give himself wholly to the world. He had a heart that
only human tenderness could satisfy. Then Mabel's
face rose before him in the still, summer afternoon—
the calm brow, the holy eyes of his fondest dream.
He thought of her as his wife—the mother of his children—in
bridehood, wifehood, motherhood; and growing
old, at length, by his side, yet never old to him,
with the smile which age had no power to dim lingering
still about her lips, till death should freeze them
into the last and sweetest smile of all, and they should
be young once more in heaven. And, thinking thus,
his soul seemed to clasp and tighten round her image,
and involuntarily his lips cried out,
“Oh, Mabel, Mabel! Mine own—mine own!”
All the afternoon he sat there, lost in troubled
thought, his fingers now and then wandering listlessly
over the chords of his violin. At twilight he rose,
and went silently down stairs and out of doors. Standing
at the window, his mother watched him as he
walked with rapid step toward Farmer Emerson's
house. The knowledge had come, at first, to this gentle
woman with a sharp pang, that her son loved another
better than his mother, but for his sake she had
conquered it; and now she said to herself, thankfully,
“I am glad he is going over there. Poor lad, he is
in heavy trouble, but God grant Mabel may be able to
console him.”
Mabel was standing under the trees at the gate. He
saw her waiting for him as he drew nigh, but he had
fingers in his own. They were icy cold.
“I know it all,” she said, with sorrowful calmness,
through which thrilled the smothered cry of a breaking
heart; “father has told me. I know you can not
give up your music, and I can't disobey my father.
We must—”
She could not finish the sentence. Her voice broke
up into sobs, and Joseph Thorne drew her shivering
form to his bosom. Swift as lightning, the thought
flashed through his mind that thus Heaven had taught
him his duty. He had not considered her suffering
before. What claim had the world on him, what claim
his beloved music, that could be weighed for one instant
with this breaking heart—this pure, woman's
heart, which was all his own? He pressed his lips to
the forehead lying against his breast. He said, very
tenderly,
“Hush, Mabel—hush, darling! I have decided for
us both. God has joined us together, and nothing can
put us asunder. I shall accept your father's proposal.
What would music be to me without you—you, my
soul's best music? If I went forth without you into
the world, the thought of Mabel alone and suffering
would unnerve me and make me powerless. What
could I give forth but utterances of despair? No;
God calls me to stay here. Look up, my darling, my
sweet Mabel. You do not fear I should ever tire of
you?”
She raised her eyes, and looked long and earnestly
into his face.
“No, Joseph, no; I do not fear you will tire of me,
for I know your steadfast nature. I know God has
your fame, your calling, your beloved music. Better
give up Mabel. Go, Joseph; I am not selfish. I will
believe that you love me always. It shall be the glory
of my life. You must go to your career, your duty.”
“My career is here. My duty is here. My world
is in your heart, your priceless heart. Nay, Mabel, I
have decided. Urge me not. How could my heart
break for music when the clinging tendrils of your
love bound it together? Be satisfied and smile, for I
shall be happy.”
With these words, and such as these, he soothed her;
in some measure he won her from her sorrow; and
yet, though the smiles came to her lips at his bidding,
in her heart was a prophetic silence of fear, lest, in giving
up his music, her lover gave up the best half of
himself.
They went together at length to her father, and,
holding in his the hand of his betrothed, Joseph Thorne
said,
“I require no longer time, Mr. Emerson. I have decided.
Your daughter is more to me than all things
else. I give up all for her. I accept your offer with
thanks. To-morrow I will come and place my time
at your disposal.”
And then he went home to his mother. It was dark,
but there was no light. She had been sitting alone,
absorbed in her anxious thoughts. He knelt at her
feet as in his early boyhood days, and told her his story.
“All is settled now,” he said, steadily. “I go to
work at Mr. Emerson's to-morrow. Mabel will be
mine. Music must be given up—my dreams—my ambition.”
His mother interrupted him with her sobs. She
clasped him in her arms. She wept over him; she,
who had gloried so in his gift, who, ever since he had
been laid, her first-born, upon her breast, had understood
him and lived in his life. And he wept with
her. He was not too proud, with his mother's arms
around him, to weep for the far-off fame-wreaths of
which his ambition had vainly dreamed — wreaths
which he must never more hope to gather. That
night neither of them slept. He laid his head, as in
boyhood, upon her motherly heart. He breathed into
her sympathetic ears all the hopes and longings which
this decision had crushed; and all the other hopes and
longings, which were blooming now brighter than ever,
which clustered around Mabel's name. And his mother
comforted him.
The next morning he commenced his task under
Farmer Emerson. His heart was almost buoyant, despite
all he had resigned, for he had had a few moment's
conversation with Mabel—Mabel, who was to be all
his own. She looked so lovely in her fresh calico
morning dress. The light of hope sparkled in her
eyes, and sat serenely upon her brow. Surely that
smile would have power to brighten any fate.
But the task which was set him, light as it seemed,
taxed all his energies. The delicate, study-loving
youth was not used to labor. The sun scorched his
slender hands pitilessly; the sweat stood in great, bead-like
drops upon his brow. It was a comfort when the
horn sounded for dinner. It was a sorely-needed refreshment
to sit in the farmer's porch, while Mabel
brought cool, sparkling water to have his burning,
dusty face.
Day after day passed on, and he never faltered.
With steady, unflagging industry he performed whatever
tasks were appointed, and as rapidly as possible
made himself master of all the mysteries of farming.
But he drooped under his uncongenial toil. Even Mr.
Emerson could see this; but he predicted “the boy
would grow stronger and get used to it in time.” Mabel
saw more clearly, and the hope in her eyes grew
less steadfast. Often, when he came to her in the evening,
tired and worn, she would say,
“It is no use. You will have to give it up, or it
will kill you.”
And he would strive to answer cheerfully.
“Nonsense! I am tired, but you know, dear, it will
be so much easier when we get a place of our own.
I need only do the lightest work then.”
But he could not blind Mabel's clear eyes.
It was during Ole Bull's first visit to this country,
and, as the autumn grew into winter, the papers were
full of his success. They often read of him together;
of his tall, swaying figure, his face so calm and spiritual,
and the wonderful music which seemed the voice
of his soul. One morning, with a paper in his hand,
Joseph Thorne came to Mabel. His face was kindled
with enthusiasm. His eyes flashed, and his manner
was eager and hurried.
“See here, Mabel,” he said; “he plays at New Haven
to-night. Only thirty miles off. I can resist the
temptation no longer. I must go. There is not much
to do on the farm, and I can borrow your father's horse.
Oh, Mabel! it will give me new life.”
She entered eagerly into his plans. Her father did
not oppose them, and in half an hour he had started.
which was to be so brief, and she stood at the gate
and watched him with a cheerful smile until his eyes,
looking back, could discern her no longer. Then she
went into the house, and the grief smothered, woman-like,
for his sake burst forth.
“Oh,” she murmured, “he will never be the same
to me again—I feel it. This music will speak to him
like a clarion. It will awake him from dreams. His
life-work will rise up before him, and the necessity to
go forth and do it will be upon his soul. And I—woe
is me!—how shall I learn to live without him? Hush,
selfish heart? Wouldst thou hold him back from his
true life, weak spirit?”
But the chidden agony would come back again.
The veil was rent away from the pale brow of the future.
Swift and sure she saw her fate coming toward
her. All that day, all that night, all the next day, she
wrestled with it, but still its face was set resolutely toward
her—still its steps were onward.
It was almost nightfall when the watched-for figure
came in sight. She went to the gate to meet him. He
sprang from the horse and folded her in his arms. His
kisses thrilled upon her lips, yet even then she felt
there had been a change. She drew him into the
house and questioned him eagerly. It had been as
she expected. The wonderful music had troubled all
the depths of his nature. It had bound him captive.
In vain he struggled against the chain.
Unfalteringly she gave her counsel.
“Go!” she said; “you must go! I told you it would
break your heart to give it up; and see, already in
these few months you have grown prematurely old,
highest part of your nature if you do not serve your
soul's master. It is the task God himself has set you;
it is not yours to deliberate whether you will accept
it.”
“But you, Mabel, my life's life—I can not give
you up.”
For one moment the white face grew whiter. But
there came no quiver into her quiet tones.
“You need not give me up. I shall be yours only,
till I die; nor need we despair. If you succeed, perhaps
my father will give me to you. I believe he will,
he loves me so. And you will succeed, you must succeed.
For such as you there is no such word as fail.
Go, Joseph; it is right.”
A troubled, anxious week intervened before he had
decided, but Mabel saw how it would be all along.
Not for an instant did she beguile herself with false
hopes. He went. The farewell kisses of two pure
women, mother and betrothed, were upon his lips.
Their blessings were the last sound in his ears. Their
prayers followed him. He seemed to suffer more than
Mabel in the prolonged agony of their parting. Twenty
times he was on the point of giving up his career,
his future, to stay with her, but she would not suffer
it. She sustained him, she cheered him; she, who
knew better than himself how impossible for him was
any other life than the one which had haunted all the
dreams of his boyhood. When he was gone at length
—when anxious eyes, strained ever so widely, could
not catch another glimpse of the beloved form—the
two women, both bereft of their dearest thing in life,
went in silence, each into her own home, to struggle
no partnership of grief.
Mabel suffered most. It was natural for the mother
to wish her son to go out into the world, to do and be
all that God gave him power; and, whatever change
came to him, the one tie could never be broken—he
would be her son always. But to Mabel, despite her
strong faith in him, the light of her life seemed to have
gone out, and her soul shuddered—alone in the darkness.
She had exhausted all her energy in soothing
and encouraging him; she had none left to struggle
with the grim presentiment which oppressed her own
spirit.
She had always been strong, in spite of the extreme
delicacy of her figure, and she did not grow feeble
even now. All her accustomed duties were performed
with her usual energy. There was no visible
change, save that her lips smiled a little more seldom,
and her cheek was white as marble. She seemed to
strive to be continually occupied, as if fearful if she
gave herself time to confront her grief it would overmaster
her.
Her face always brightened after a letter from her
betrothed. They were not very frequent, but when
they did come they overflowed with love and hope.
She felt that now, indeed, was he living his true life.
Nor had success been so very difficult to him. Ole
Bull had been his friend. He had sought, at once,
the gifted Norwegian. In secret, for he was not one
to bestow his benefactions in public, the master performer
had given him a few hints, a few instructions,
that he might know better how to translate his soul's
depths into his music.
Soon Mabel heard of him. He was making a tour
under an assumed name, to which only those who
loved him best had the key, and every where he was
—as Mabel had felt he must ever be—successful. The
small country places which witnessed his first trial of
strength were moved as they had never been before.
No mind so dull but his tones made themselves understood.
The country press was full of his praises.
This young performer—they wrote—so delicate, so almost
boyish, but with such a wonderful genius! They
told of his face beaming as if inspired; the eyes sweet
and bright, yet sad; the slender figure; the almost
transparent hands; and, as she read, the prophetic
fear in Mabel's heart grew heavier. His letters became
more and more rare. It was not that he loved
her less. Mabel had never doubted him for a moment.
But he was doing his work, and it absorbed all his
energies. If it were brief, it must be mighty.
One afternoon in May she sat alone under the trees
where they had so often sat together. Her thoughts
went back over all her life—that young, innocent life,
where were no blighting plague-spots of willful sin,
few even of unintentional wrongs, and yet where, of
late, so many tears had fallen. She remembered the
long-ago time when Joseph Thorne had been her
childish friend and confidant; she retraced the days,
unquiet yet so blissful in their uncertainty, when her
heart awoke from its maiden sleep, and she knew that
she had given him the love for which his words had
not yet sued. Then she lived again the evening of
their betrothal, and whispered over and over to herself
every tender word which had fallen from his lips.
Her father's step along the highway disturbed her reverie.
in his face startled her. There were tears in his
eyes, and his whole expression was full of an unwonted,
sorrowful tenderness. She sprang to his side.
“Poor Mabel!” he said, as if speaking to himself,
“how hard it will fall on her!” Then, folding his
arm about her, as if in terror lest she should be overcome
by the shock, he said,
“I have seen Joseph Thorne. He came home this
afternoon, as I think, to die. He wants you. Go to
him, Mabel. I give you free leave to stay with him
to the last. Poor child, it's all the consolation you
can have now.”
Mabel did not faint. “Thank you,” she whispered
gratefully, as she withdrew from her father's arm and
went into the house. The blow had come so suddenly
that she did not realize its force. Mechanically, as
one moving in a dream, she put on her bonnet and
walked out toward the Widow Thorne's cottage. The
door was open, and she stood in it for one moment,
silently watching her lover. He lay upon a lounge.
His face was very thin and white, and his eyes seemed
supernaturally large and brilliant. His mother was
kneeling by his side, with her face buried in his bosom.
A solemn awe was upon Mabel's soul. She
dared not go forward or break the silence. Already
he seemed to her like an angel. He was the first to
speak.
“Mabel! Thank God! Come to me, darling!”
His mother rose, and, almost without her own volition,
Mabel had crossed the room; her arms were
folded about his neck, her lips clung to his in a long
kiss of love and despair.
For six weeks she was his constant nurse, sharing
her duties only with his mother. During many hours
of every day they were alone together, and in them
all his soul was revealed to her. She shared his triumphs,
his successes; success whose contemplation
deepened the hectic on his wasting cheek even now.
“But it has been too much for me,” he would say,
with a sad smile; “the excitement, and, worst of all,
the being parted from you—it has worn me out.”
All that his art had done, all that his genius had
comprehended and struggled to express in his music,
his lips whispered to her in those long, bright days,
when she was going down by his side to the darkness
of death; down to the river's brink, whence she must
turn back in loneliness and sorrow. Unspeakably
precious were those last hours of soul communion.
Mabel felt then how truly she was part of himself—
that their two souls, separated though they might be
for years, must be reunited before either could be a
symmetrical and perfect whole.
His summons came on a June twilight. On that
day, twenty-two years before, he had been born into
the world of mortals; on that day God saw fit that he
should be born again into the world of spirits. The
two women, of both whose lives he was the dearest
portion, were alone with him. An unspeakable tenderness
breathed in his farewell. His last words were,
“Mother, your son will know you in heaven. Mabel,
my life's angel, I will wait for you there.”
After that he lay, looking earnestly at his betrothed,
as if he would fain carry her features with him to the
land of the angels. His violin, beloved even in death,
lay on the bed beside him. It had been placed there
over the strings, and beneath their touch grew, somehow,
a strange, wild melody, as if spirits were playing
upon the chords. It was like the story of his life. It
began in feeble, uncertain cadence. It swelled into
love, ambition, hope. Then it grew feebler, slower,
more mournful. Low, and sweet, and tremulous, yet
wild, it thrilled along the strings, until, at last, with a
long sob, it grew mute. With the soul of the music
had departed the soul of Joseph Thorne.
His mother soon followed him. Their graves are
green under the sunshine of this peaceful summer.
Mabel Emerson's work is not yet done. She is wedded
to a hope and a memory. Bold, indeed, must the
man be who would dare to speak to her of love.
Wherever trouble is, wherever hearts are struggling
with sorrow, her presence is at the door; and she
whom Joseph Thorne used to call the angel of his
life, will go to her last rest crowned with the blessings
of those ready to perish. “Her works they shall follow
her.”
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