 | LETTER THE FOURTH. My third book |  |
4. LETTER THE FOURTH.
You will be surprised at the date of this letter, Cousin
Jane, and yet not more so than I am. All this past
delicious month seems like a dream. I am not awake
enough yet to explain it, so I will give you the outlines,
and you must fill up the picture with fancy
touches.
My parents came. Tears were in their eyes when
they kissed me. I think there was a strange sweetness
to them both in coming back, after nearly thirty
years, to the dear haunts of their days of love, and romance,
and wooing. Never have I seen them so happy,
so free from care. Their souls asserted themselves
here. They grew tenderer to each other, to me, to
every earthly thing. They opened their hearts to the
blessed influences of sunrise and moonrise, bird-songs
and dew-falls. I waited until there had been time for
the free country wind to sweep from their memory all
the dust and care of the soiling town. Then I told
them of Mr. Fitz-Herbert's proposal and my answer.
Mamma was the first to speak.
“You are a good girl, Helen. God forbid that we
should wish you to give your hand without your
heart—we, who know what love is.” She looked with
filling eyes upon papa.
Then, Jane, I pressed my advantage. I besought
its living for the world, its worriment about ways and
means; to come here, where they would have enough
to live in comfort, where mother's vacant girlhood
home waited for them. They listened with more readiness
than I had feared. You behold the result in the
dating of this epistle. Father is growing young in his
freedom from care and trouble, and dear mother tells
me, with tears in her eyes, that this is the best life she
has ever known. As for me, I can hardly realize my
own happiness. I must lay down my pen now, and
go out among those magnificent oaks, in whose tops
the golden arrows of sunset are quivering, until I feel
through all my heart the exultant consciousness that
this dear home is my very own.
Oh, what shall I say to you now, out of my full
heart, dear Cousin Jane? It is almost midnight, and
yet I must conclude this letter before I sleep. To
think that since I laid down my pen, four hours ago,
my destiny has come to me. I was pacing along under
the trees, my eyes cast down, when suddenly I felt rather
than saw that I was no longer alone. I looked up,
and there, right in my path, stood Philip Wyndham.
“What! are you visiting now at Hillside?” I asked,
very abruptly, saying the first thing that came into my
head in my confusion.
“No, not exactly; that is, I shall stay there, but I
came on purpose to see you, Helen.”
And then, walking by my side under the oaks, he
said once more words which you may not hear; which
are only his and mine in all the world. Once more
my pearl of great price lay gleaming at my feet, and
seems that Caddie, that keen-eyed Caddie, did suspect
our secret after all, and so she gave him a hint of my
rejection of Mr. Fitz-Herbert, and that I had persuaded
my parents to come to Oakland to live, and then he
came up to see me. I know the look with which Caddie
will say to me to-morrow,
“I thought you never would marry a poor man,
Helen.”
And I shall answer,
“I am not going to. I shall marry the richest man
I ever knew; rich in faith, hope, genius, and a millionaire
in love.”
Oh, Jane, God was merciful. He did not require me
to wait till the Beyond for the fruition of my hopes.
Even here has He crowned me with the largess of his
blessing. Philip is mine and I am his. I ask no more
of life, only I pray God to keep my heart meek and
pure, a fit temple for the love He has sent to dwell in it.
Before the October moon has waned, you and Charley
will come to my simple bridal. I shall wear no
costly robes, no glittering ornaments, but truth and
love will make me fair to the dear eyes whose light
outshines for me all the diamonds in all the world. I
shall be crowned by woman's holiest crown. I am
happy. There is no undercurrent of wailing now in
the great glad chorus of nature—no sheeted ghost in
the still chamber of my heart. I am blessed beyond
all I could ask or hope. Has not this been the golden
summer of my life? And now, at the close of this
last chapter of my maidenhood's romance, I must write
the name which will soon be mine no longer—
| LETTER THE FOURTH. My third book | |