Ask her not why her heart has lost its lightness, "Mary Fuller, what ails you? All this time your eyes are heavy, and you look every other minute as if just going to cry. What is it all about?" This was a long speech for aunt Hannah, and it made Mary start and blush like a guilty thing, especially as it followed a protracted silence that had been disturbed only by the click of aunt Hannah's knitting-needles. "Matter with me, aunt? Nothing. What makes you think of me at all?" "Because it is my duty to think of you. Because there is need that some one should take care of you." "Of me?" said Mary, blushing to the temples, "what have I done, aunt?" "What everything of womankind must do, sooner or later, I suppose, my poor girl." "What is that, dear aunt?" faltered the girl. The old lady laid down her knitting, and leaned on the candle-stand with both her elbows; thus her aged face drew close to that of the young girl. "You have begun to love this artist youth, Mary Fuller!" she said, in a low whisper, for the very name of love pained her old heart as a sudden shock sends veins of silver along a sheet of ice. "Don't cry, Mary; don't cry; it is a great misfortune, but no fault. How could you help it, poor child!" "Oh! aunt Hannah, how did you find this out?" whispered the shame-stricken girl, "I thought"— "That nobody knew it but yourself. Well, well, don't look so frightened; it's no reason that others know it because I do." "And Joseph, do you think? do you believe? I would not think it for a moment," she continued, with the most touching humility, "but he cannot fancy such a thing—and so I—I did not know but"— "I think he loves you, Mary Fuller!" answered the old lady, breaking through her hesitating phrases, in womanly pity of her embarrassment. Mary started as if a blow had fallen upon her. "Oh! don't, don't, I dare not believe it. What? me?—me? Please don't say this, aunt Hannah, it makes the very heart quiver in my bosom." "I am sure he loves you, Mary, or I would not say it. Do I ever joke? Mary Fuller covered her face, while great sobs of joy broke in her bosom, and rushed in tears to her eyes. "Oh! I am faint—I shall die of this great joy—but oh! if you should be mistaken!" "But I am not. How should I be mistaken? When a mother buries her child deep in the grave-yard, does she forget what mothers' love is? Those who forget their youth in happiness may be deceived. I never can!" "And you think he loves me?" Mary leaned forward and laid her clasped hands pleadingly on the knotted fingers of the old maid. Aunt Hannah looked down almost tenderly through her spectacles, and a smile crept over her mouth. "I know he loves you." Mary Fuller's radiant face drooped forward at these words, and she fell to kissing these old hands eagerly, as if the knotted veins were filled with honey dew upon which her heart feasted. "Stop, stop!" said aunt Hannah, withdrawing her hands, and laying them softly on the bowed head of her protege, "don't give way so; remember Joseph is very feeble yet, from the fever that nearly cost him his life, and that he has nothing to live on but what he calls his art; Nathan and I might help him, but we have only a few acres of land to live on, and are getting older every day. There is not the strength of one robust man among us all—to say nothing of the poor girl up stairs." "But he loves me. Oh! aunt, you are sure of that?" "But how can he marry you, poor as he is, with no more power to work than a child?" "Marry me! I never thought of that," said the girl, lifting her face all in a glow from her hands, "but he will live here always, and so will I. Morning and night, and all day long I shall see him, hear his music, watch the changes of his beautiful, beautiful face. You may grow old as fast as you like, you and uncle Nat; I can support you, he will teach me to paint pictures, and we can sell them in the city. Besides, Joseph can make music on the violin, and I have learned to write it out on paper. The rich people in New York will give money for music and pictures like his, I know; you shall not work so hard after this, aunt Hannah; and as for uncle Nat, he shall snooze in his easy-chair all day long if he likes." Aunt Hannah shook her head, and a mist stole over her spectacles. She was getting very childish in her old age, that stern old maid. "You are a nice girl, Mary," she said, "and mean right, I know. But Joseph will never be content to let you support him if you had the strength. He is very manly and proud with all his softness." "I know it, aunt, but then remember I am like his sister." "But sisters do not support their brothers, and men do not like to take favors where they ought to give them." "Oh! aunt Hannah, you make me so unhappy. What difference can it make which does the work where two people love each other?" "This," answered the old maid; "women were born to look upward with their hearts and cling to others for support—men were made to give this support. You cannot change places and be happy!" "I see, I see," murmured Mary Fuller, thoughtfully, "but Joseph will get well again; only think how much better he is since he came to the Old Homestead." That moment Joseph came in from the garden, where he had been walking by himself, for the day was fine, and he loved to gratify his eye for colors, even among the vegetable beds and coarse garden flowers, and had been quietly enjoying them till the dusk drove him in-doors. Mary looked toward him wistfully. She remembered that for some days he had seemed sad and preoccupied, going alone by himself and drawing only sad strains from his violin. "Aunt Hannah, I am glad you are here," said the youth, moving slowly toward his seat by the stand; "I want to talk a little with you!" Mary had drawn back as he came in; there was no candle lighted, and she was lost in shadow. As he spoke, Mary started and would have gone out, but aunt Hannah extended her hands to prevent it, and the youth sat down sighing heavily, doubtless unconscious of her presence. Two or three times, as was his habit when thoughtful, he drew the slender fingers of his right hand through his hair, scattering the curls back on his temples. At length he spoke, but with hesitation. "Aunt!" "Well, Joseph!" and the old lady began to knit. "Aunt, I come to say"—He paused, and drew the hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to sweep aside some inward pain. Aunt Hannah remained silent, knitting diligently. "I must go away from here, aunt; you have given me shelter when I most needed it. Now I must take to the world again." Mary listened with a sinking heart and parted lips that grew cold and white with each word. At last a wild sob arose in her throat, and the veins upon her forehead swelled with the effort she made to suppress it. "You wish to leave us, then?" questioned aunt Hannah, coldly, "and why?" "My life is idle here, utterly idle and dependent. God did not smite all the pride from my soul when he took my father. I cannot live on the toil of two old people whom my own hands should support." "But you are welcome Joseph; and we love to have you with us." "I know it—still, this should make me only more anxious to relieve your generosity of its burden." "This is not all," said aunt Hannah, mildly, "you keep the principal reason back for leaving us, tell me what it is?" "Perhaps I ought—though the reason I have given should be enough. Yes, aunt, there is another motive—do not laugh at my folly, that I cannot dwarf myself and become a helpless nonentity, without a struggle to grasp the blessings so much desired by other men. It has been a happy time that I have known at the Old Homestead, still what has it secured to me but unrest, and such disquiet as will follow me through life, unless I work out a destiny for myself like other men?" He broke off, hesitating for words, and a faint blush stole over his face even in the darkness. Aunt Hannah felt his embarrassment, and had compassion on him. "I know all about it," she said, quietly, "you love Mary Fuller. She is a good girl. Why not?" "Why not?" exclaimed the youth, passionately, "I am penniless? Nay, it is more than probable that I may never be really strong again." "That is God's work, but no fault of yours!" "But how can I support a wife? I who cannot earn bread for myself?" "You wish to leave Mary then?" "Wish to leave her! Do the angels wish to flee from paradise, when all its flowers are in blossom? No, bear with me, good aunt. It may be folly, but, I have some power. Let me try it. Every year sends a troop of persons to our country who turn their talent into gold. Why should not I?" "And what would you do then?" inquired the old lady. "What should I do!" exclaimed the youth, with enthusiasm. "Why, return to you with the money I had earned, and, instead of a burden, become a protector to your old age." "And Mary." "Then I could, without cowering with shame at my own helplessness, ask her to love me even as I love her." "But how many years must go by before you can return to us? The best part of her life and yours will have passed before then." "I know it. I feel all the madness of my hopes. They are wild, insane perhaps, but I will not give them up; do not ask me, do not discourage me. Why must I, with my heart and brain alive like other men's, live and die alone?" Aunt Hannah looked towards Mary Fuller, who sat trembling in the darkness. The triumphant consciousness that she was beloved, overwhelmed the girl with a pleasure so exquisite that it almost amounted to pain. Still she felt like a criminal stealing the secret of her own happiness, but the shadows were too thick; aunt Hannah saw nothing of this. "And now," said the youth, more calmly, "you will let me depart, or I shall speak out the love which is becoming too powerful for concealment. I shall tell her that the beggar loves her and dreams of making her his wife." Mary arose, the joy at her heart swelled painfully, and her delicate frame trembled beneath it. She would gladly have crept from the room with her sweet burden of happiness, but this excitement had been continued too long; her limbs gave way and she sank to the floor. "Who is here? what is this?" cried the youth; "has another heard my mad confession?" "I heard it all, forgive me, forgive me. I could not go out; at the first attempt my strength gave way"— "You heard me?" questioned the youth, pale and trembling. "You heard all that I said. Girl, girl, you have stolen the secret from my heart to despise me for it." Mary Fuller rose to her feet, and drew towards him. The beauty of an angel glowed in her face; it was bright with holy courage. "Despise you for it! I, who love you so much!" "Love me! Stop, Mary, do not say this if it is not holy truth, such as one honest heart may render to another." "It is holy truth. Take my hands in yours. See how they quiver with the joy of your words." "But I am poor, Mary Fuller, I am stricken in all my strength." "And I, what am I?" "Oh, you are an angel. I know you are that!" "No, no!" cried the poor girl, covering her face with her hands. "But you are. I drink in beauty from your voice, there is beauty in your touch. Oh! how I love to hear you talk, it was music to me from the first day I ever saw you." "Oh, forbear, forbear, it is Isabel you are describing," said Mary, shrinking away from him. "Oh! she is all this and more." "Hush, Mary, hush; I feel the tones of your voice thrilling through and through me. This is the best beauty I can comprehend. When you disclaim it, I hear the tears breaking up through your voice, and it grows heavenly in its sadness. Your beauty is immortal, it can never grow old!" The youth paused, and turned towards aunt Hannah, for his quick sense had caught the sobs that she was striving to smother by burying her face in her folded arms. Many a stern grief and sore trial had wrung that aged heart, but for a quarter of a century she had not wept heartily before. As she looked on these young persons, and witnessed the first rich joy of their love, her heart gave way. The memories of her youth came back, and in the fullness of her regrets she cried like a child. Mary Fuller withdrew her hand from her lover, and moving close to aunt "Aunt, dear aunt, look up and tell Joseph that he must not leave us. Aunt Hannah lifted her face, and swept the grey locks back from her temples. "What day of the month is this?" asked the old lady, standing up and speaking in a subdued voice; "it should be near the tenth of November." "To-morrow will be the tenth," answered Mary. "Stay together while I go talk with Isabel." With these words the old woman went up stairs feebly, as if her tears had swept all the strength from her frame. Mary and her lover sat down by the hearth and fell into a sweet fragmentary conversation. Soft low words and broken sentences, the overflow of two hearts brimful of happiness alone, passed between them. A strange timidity crept over them. Neither dared approach the subject of a separation, though both were saddened by it. Aunt Hannah came down at last, calmer, and with more of her usual cold manner. "Help me," said Mary, appealing to her; "oh! aunt, persuade him to stay with us!" "To-morrow will be time enough," was the answer. "Go away, now, and Never in her whole life had the voice of aunt Hannah sounded so deep with meaning, so solemn in its earnestness. It was seldom that she ever blessed any one aloud, or entered, save passively, into the devotions of the family—now her benediction had the energy of an earnest soul in it. The very tones of her voice were changed. She seemed to have thrown off the icy crust from her heart, and breathed deeper for it. Mary and Joseph went out, and sat down together in the starlight, that fell softly upon them through the apple boughs. They had so many things to say, and confessions to make; each was timidly anxious to search the heart of the other, and read all the sweet hidden mysteries that seemed fathomless there. Meanwhile aunt Hannah went into the out-room—that in which her sister Anna died, and kneeling down, with her hands pressed on the bottom of a chair, broke into a passion so deep and earnest that her whole frame shook with the agony of her struggle. She arose at length and began to walk the floor, wringing her hands and moaning as if in pain. Thus she toiled and struggled in prayer all night, for it was the anniversary of her sister's anguish and death. Many a softening influence had crept into that frozen nature, with the young persons who brought their joys and their sorrows beneath her roof, and now came the solemn breaking up of her heart. She learned the true method of atonement in the stillness of that nightwatch. It was the regeneration of a soul. When the day broke, she stole up to Isabel Chester's room, and kissed her pallid cheeks as she slept. "Be comforted," she said, smiling down upon the unconscious face; "be comforted, for the day of your joy is at hand." |