YEARS after Coleridge wrote the beautiful “Hymn before Sunrise in the Valley of Chamouni,” which Felicia Hemans said she would give all her poems to have written,—among a group of strangers standing in awe before Mont Blanc was a man who seemed forty-five, from his hair fully half gray and his quiet, dignified bearing, though he must have been younger. He was absorbed in his own thoughts. He did not look at any face about him, but seemed spell-bound by the sublimity of the scene. In that vast mountain, white with eternal snows, with the rivers, fed by the glaciers, turbulent at its base, the sun clothing it with rainbows, he saw the same God who had compassed his life, as the stalwart pines hedged in the grand mount before him.

After a time, as through that as yet undeveloped science of unseen power between mind and mind, he felt a presence. He was conscious of eyes fixed upon him, conscious that somebody he had known and loved was near him. A hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Burton, you’re the last man in all the world I thought of seeing. Ten years since you and I travelled together, and you yet on the wing? I supposed you had settled down to some life-work, and was surrounded by loves and cares ere this. You and I have stood here together before.”

The speaker was a genial, generous man, somewhat Cone’s junior in look and manner, whose sorrows, whether many and great or not, could not long crush his happy heart. His sympathies were quick, his hopes naturally bright, and his nature ardent. The decade that had passed since the former companionship had aged one more than the other. The one had been giving time and heart to business, but had lived alone, though a crowded world was about him. The other had been kept young and fresh by the love of a cheerful wife and sunny daughter, and the years had gone by rapidly and more than ordinarily well stored with good deeds.

“Come, Burton, I am tiring of this road and grandeur. Let’s go back to the hotel and have one of the old friendly talks. Nature has lost half its beauty now that only one pair of eyes sees it—and I have no one to tell of the beautiful or strange things I have seen. You don’t need friendship as I do. You are made of sterner stuff. You are Mont Blanc personified.”

Cone’s mind was full of the grandeur before him, but his heart, cold as he was, was keenly alive to the needs of those who had been friends, so together they walked arm in arm to their lodgings.

“Now, let’s talk over the ten years, Cone. Ten years make a fool or a wise man of a fellow—carry him up to the gates or down to the depths.”

“Tell me what they have done for you, Marsh. You know how much I have to thank you and your young wife for the sunshine you put into my life when we travelled together before. She seemed like a sister to me. She understood me; and that is where most women fail. They do not know us, or we do not know them, so our true natures never come side by side; but she seemed to feel the pulse of my life. She knew just when I needed jovial words and when I needed sympathy or quiet. She had the tact I have heard so often described, but seldom seen, and a pure, good heart back of it. I fear all hasn’t gone right with you. Can it be that you are walking alone, like myself?”

Tears gathered in Marsh’s eyes. He had almost a woman’s heart and a woman’s love. “It isn’t hard for you to stand alone, but for me it is crushing. I buried my wife in England six months ago. We came for her health, but she failed rapidly and went away soon after we arrived. Our little girl is boarding with friends, and I wander anywhere, everywhere,—so I can forget. I cannot go back to America. Nothing binds me there. I seem unfit for labor, and I am adrift. You know she was like an anchor. I depended upon her judgment, upon her help, upon her love. When a woman leans entirely upon a man, and she is taken away, he may feel as though something dear and beautiful had gone out from him; but when a woman has strength enough to be a companion, a counsellor, in the deeds and plans of every day,—when she is not a pet merely, but a guide to everything noble,—when, whether you will or not, you are kept upon a plane of right and duty and manhood,—what shall a poor relying heart do?”

“Would you wish to forget, Marsh? I would put such a blessing away in my heart and grow strong from daily looking at it.”

“I can’t keep it, Cone. I must get away from such memories. I feel as though I drifted hither and thither, because there is no hand on the helm. To remember is misery: to forget might be relief.”

“And yet, do you not owe such a wife a loving, yearning remembrance? One might forget a flower that blossomed for his pleasure for a day or a week; but hold in grateful memory a spring that opened in the desert of a parched life and became an unfailing supply. Memories sometimes are almost as sweet as present realities, and sometimes we are made even stronger by the one than by the other.”

“That may be good philosophy for those who have never loved and lost. No one can know till he has the trial. I have one left, I know, but that does not fill the place of the other, and perchance no one ever could.”

“You must go back with me to our fatherland. I am nearly through my journeying, for it seems idle work for me now. Besides, I have had premonitions that I should make ready for another journey. You seem startled. Ten years have worn upon me, for they have been years of constant and hard labor. I could not forget, and would not; but hope will fade into fruition by and by.”

“Cone, you ought to tell me of your life. Much as you respected my wife, you never raised the curtain from the scenes which transpired before we met you. Why have you lived to your age, and taken no heart into your own to bless and hold? Your principles are like adamant, and would keep you anywhere, but every man and woman needs to have his or her heart uncloistered, that others may grow strong and unselfish with him. This working out life’s plan alone, with no giving or receiving of loves, seems a mistake to me. Has your heart anything hidden away in it, or are you proof to what you may think the weaker acts of life?”

Cone’s face seemed a little troubled. Not one man or woman out of ten thousand reaches the age of forty without having loved or been loved, and felt blessed joy or bitter pain in one or the other. Was he indeed different from the rest of mankind? He manifested no partiality for women, except a deference that everybody pays to what it supposes exalted and ennobling. He had received numerous proofs of their esteem for him, and indications that they would not repel his attentions. He was often the subject of remark, from his striking face and manner, but when all the queries had been asked and unanswered they said, “There must be a reason for all this, and time will tell it.”

He had been touched in heart by Marsh’s utter helplessness. He knew better than anybody else what a centre she had been to his thought and his affections. He sympathized with him. Perhaps the doors of his own inner sanctuary, locked for a half-score years, might swing back just once, and let a weary friend come in and find consolation.

“Come to-night, Marsh, and I will talk with you. Good-by till then.”

Alone and unperceived he stole out to sit under the majestic shadows of Mont Blanc, and worship. Nobody with a God in his heart ever stands there without holding communion with Him. No wonder that the lofty peaks, echoing caÑons, and wondrous waterfalls of our own country have written the names of more than one poet on the pages of American literature! Such scenes are the nurseries in which great minds develop. Such grand handiwork of the Builder draws every man very near to Him.

Burton Cone had never forgotten the scenes through which he had passed. Though some things had been laid away and sealed with the seal of silence for over a dozen years, they were fresh to him as though they had taken place that very morning. Perhaps he did not need sympathy as some need it; perhaps he did not wish to burden others with his feelings.

It seemed almost twilight in the room, the lights were turned down so low.

“Sit down, Marsh, till we talk of the past. You have wondered if there is anything back of this life you have known. Aye, much, very much! You have wondered if I ever loved, and why I did not love some one now, when I so reverence woman. Away back in New England, in a little town near a beautiful city on the Connecticut, is the home of my childhood. That is precious to me, though I have not seen it for years. Near it is a large brick house, painted white, with long rows of firs and pines leading to it. It looks like an old castle. In that home was a young girl who from her childhood was my ideal. We played together as children, we roamed through the woods and meadows, we read and sang and talked of things beyond our years, because her nature held me above myself. She was not beautiful to others, perchance; but to me her large dark eyes, high brow, and glossy hair, with her quiet, dignified manner, made her a queen. She never seemed to do wrong. She had to ask no one’s forgiveness. She never made mistakes. She had no need for regrets. Nobody thought to be rude or rough to Mary Fairchild, or in her presence. She was always calm, always genial and kind, always considerate. She never seemed like the rest of us. I fancied she had been sent from heaven to keep our earthly minds and tastes somewhat akin to theirs. I always feared she might at any time take her departure to the land where she seemed rightly to belong.

“She went away to receive her education, and I studied hard to make myself, if possible, some day worthy of her. Occasionally she wrote me, and those letters seemed to me of peculiar value. I read each one over and over again, till I knew every word and how every letter was made. The slightest allusion to friendship for me seemed a mine of joy, and I put the letter next my heart to read as often as I should get a little leisure. She never gave me encouragement that she loved me more than others, always treating us all in the same gracious, kindly way. I was naturally timid, and though I did not tell her I loved her my desire to be in her company, my extreme joy when I met her, my blushing cheeks and my glad eyes, must have told her over and over again that I idolized her. I was active, energetic, ardent, but I lacked her spirituality and finer qualities of soul. She revelled in all that was beautiful and artistic. I never expected that she could love me as I did her. I thought her nature too ethereal, but I hoped that I might sometime live in her presence and be guided by her blessed spirit in my daily life.

“Nothing could have been farther removed from coarseness or passion than my love for Mary; I never pressed my lips to hers. So I could be near her, hear her voice, and live in the sunshine of herself, I was content. I went out from her society a better man each time. I would go any distance, endure any exposure, so I might but feel the blessed light of her eyes come into mine. I never joked with her as I might others. I never used her name before any person. I never wrote it carelessly. Everything pertaining to her was sacred as the heaven which I sometime expected to enter. My highest thought was her happiness, not mine. My ambition, my hopes, my prayers, all centred in that one desire to walk beside her in the beautiful journey of life. When any person coupled my name with hers in pleasantry I felt as though they had touched a name that was hallowed, and changed the subject. I longed to be constantly in her presence, yet dared not trouble her too much; so between desire to hover near and fear of being an annoyance rather than a joy my soul was constantly harassed. I had often pledged myself to ask her to accept my homage, and though I had means and social position and education, everything seemed unworthy of her. What if she refused to be my guide forever? Life then would be worse than useless; so, hoping and praying, I waited, and my worship grew as the months went by. Every flower that she loved I pressed and laid away in the books I had seen her read. Every kindly word she gave me made me joyful for days. Every touch of her hand thrilled me with delight, and I lived over the bliss a thousand times in memory. Once, I remember, when I gave her a picture of myself, and she looked at it long and earnestly I thought, and her dark hair touched mine, I was too happy for words to express it.

“Other young men called upon her, and, like myself, showed her the deference that belonged to a pure, beautiful woman, girl though she was in years. Among them was a noble young man, the perfection of manly grace and the embodiment of manly virtues. Alfred Trumbull was a preacher, a genial, earnest, eloquent young man, as spiritual as herself. I had met him there and had learned to love him. He admired her, we all plainly saw, but she treated him as the rest, with a cordiality that was blended with reserve and that kept us all removed just far enough to worship her.

“Weeks went by. I was growing wretched. I was coming to know how entirely dependent I was upon her for happiness. If a day passed by and I did not see her, it was a lost day. I must tell her and have her all my own. Oh, Marsh, those were glad days, after all,—when I could see her, if no more,—but God and time shape things differently from what we will!

“It was just such a night as this. I remember her so plainly—how I stood by the gate and watched the shadows of the pines flicker on the walk, and, man though I was, trembled to take the final step. She met me so cordially, more than was her wont, I thought. She was so lovely on that calm summer evening; so doubly frail, too, that my solicitude for her kept pace with my love. She was alone. With no sound save the rustle of the pines, and no one to hear save God and her, I told her all my heart. I told her how I worshipped her with all the strength of my being. I told her how I would struggle to the end of life to make myself worthy of her.

“She waited a full minute before she answered me. In that minute it seemed as though my reason would give way. She was so white with the moonlight streaming in upon her, as she put her hand in mine and said, with an irrepressible tenderness, ‘Burton’ (and nobody else spoke my name as she did), ‘Burton, I have promised to help Alfred Trumbull win souls.’

At first I was dumb; then I buried my face in my hands and groaned aloud, then I wept like a child that cannot be comforted. Oh, Marsh, there is nothing that bends a man’s soul like that! I felt alone—no support, no guide, no love, no hope. Life was worse than a blank; a dull, dread certainty of sorrow. It would be torture to die if death were to remove me from her sight—it would be torture to live and never have her love or presence. Those were bitter days, full of the depths of sorrow. Those days made me grow old a score of years. I was never young afterward.

“At last, when I could command myself, I begged to be allowed to love her till my life went out. If any one could win her instead of me, I was thankful to have it one so good as Alfred Trumbull. I conquered self. I found my highest happiness was still to see her happy. Sometimes when I visited her the old love, the yearning to claim her for myself, would sweep over me till my head grew dizzy and my heart sank within me, and then my better nature said: ‘Rejoice in her joy, and be content only to love.’

“I came at last to be resigned—yes, happy in my idol-worship. From her I could hope for nothing but kindness and tenderness, but I could never love any other. The time drew near when she and Alfred Trumbull were to commence their grand life-work. Suddenly his health failed. She went to him—she cared for him day and night with the same intensity of love that I had given her. It could not arrest disease. He longed for returning health, because they would have been so happy and congenial in their love and work; but one day in early spring he died in her arms, and was laid away among the first flowers, to rest from his labors.

“I never saw a life so blighted as hers. Her whole heart lay beside his in the grave. She lost all interest in life. She grew quiet and sad and more ethereal. She never mentioned his name, but we knew she longed to live with him, even though she must pass through the valley of the shadow.

“Against all my struggling I found my old desire to claim her coming back into my soul. I showed her all the delicate yet unobtrusive kindness possible. Her very sorrow made her unspeakably dear.

“After Alfred had been in heaven a year, and knowing that she loved no one else, I told her again the old burden of my heart. She seemed moved to pity as she laid her hand on mine, just as she did once before, and said in tones I shall never forget, ‘Burton, I am Alfred’s!’

“I lived over again the old days of torture, and again conquered self to minister to her happiness. I should have died if I could not have loved her, and I was almost happy that she did not deny me this. I gathered beautiful and rare things for her, and in all ways made her life less sad, if possible. I must have her to care for and love and serve, and again I laid my affection at her feet. With the same sad smile she had borne for three years, she said, looking down at the mourning robes she had worn for him, ‘Burton, I am Alfred’s still; but if I can make your life any happier I will be your wife!’

“Those words staggered me. I had not dared hope for this, though I prayed for it. Joy seemed to take away my senses; and seeing me so beside myself the old look came back once or twice to her face. I was as one who, shipwrecked in mid-ocean, after clinging for days to a floating plank, at last picked up by a stray ship, is helpless through joy and gratitude. I was more dead than alive with my wealth of happiness. Mary and I were made one. Marsh, how I live over again those beautiful days. I used to look at your pretty wife beside you as we journeyed, and think of my precious Mary.

“My cup of joy was full to the brim. She accepted my homage, and was grateful. I spared no pains to make her life complete. To have her in my home, to have the blessed influence of her presence evening after evening, was the crowning joy of a man who had loved for years in silence and unreturned affection.

“I was so entranced with my joy that another summer had come round again before I began to realize that she was fully mine, and then the next winter flew so rapidly, and a little son came into the household. We were both very grateful—I all the more because I thought it might fill Mary’s heart something as the old love had done.

“I watched her cheeks grow brighter as she fondled the boy, whom I named Alfred for her sake. They were so beautiful in my home, mother and child. I worked with redoubled energy, and well nigh forgot that there was any heaven beyond, my joy was so complete below.

“Spring came and I gathered wild flowers to wreathe the brows of both. One day, while absent from home, a message came for me that my wife was ill and desired me to come. I grew palsied with fear. I hastened home to find her just able to speak to me. She had had a violent hÆmorrhage of the lungs. I was wild. I knelt before her, and clasping her in my arms begged her not to die, but live for my sake and her boy’s. She put her white arm about my neck, drawing me to his little face and hers, as she said faintly, ‘Burton, keep the darling child, who is ours,—but I—I am Alfred’s!’—and was gone.

“For months I did not know what happened. All was a blank. My boy died before I came to myself, and I was alone again in the world. I travelled till my health permitted work, and then I labored incessantly.

“I love Mary now as I loved her so long ago. No other can ever fill her place. She is as much mine to love as ever. All this has whitened my hair, you see. I must lock up my heart again, lest the world look in upon my idols. Do you see that I have reason for not loving again?”

Marsh’s head was bowed. He loved Cone as a brother, and he had suffered all this and loved on, and was brave and strong.

“Let us take my little girl and go back to yours and Mary’s home,” said Marsh.

“Yes, and Mary has an only sister strangely like your wife. You need another heart to lean upon. Your nature is different from mine.”

Not many years after Marsh had taken the sister to be a mother to his pretty daughter, and Burton Cone, leaving his property to this little one, had been laid to rest by the side of Mary.