Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #111 (Aug 1859).
"Sad, sober, or perverse to-night, ma belle?" said Harvey Gray to Isabell Bernard, as they stood together in the door-way of the old farm-house at Red Hill.
"What if I should say all three, most excellent cousin?" was the merry answer.
"Then I should say, angels and ministers of grace defend me! for in any one of those moods you are enough to drive a man distracted; and if I ventured to suppose you were possessed by all three, I should—"
"Well!—what?" as he stopped a moment.
"Do as I do now—put my arms around you and hold you!" and he drew her down to a seat beside himself on the broad door-step.
"Such a proceeding would be entirely unnecessary, as well as very useless; for I should slip away just as I do now!" and she dexterously slid from under his arm.
"Very well done, little lady! but you will not do it again;" and the grasp was tightened until the young head almost touched his breast.
So the two went on with their gay bantering, although both felt that they stood very near one of the great decisions of their lives. For a little time Isabell rested quietly with Harvey's arm around her; and while she is content, let me tell you a little about her as well as about Dr. Harvey Gray.
Isabell Bernard was young, and an authoress. Left an orphan at an early age, she had made her own way in the world; and now, although young, could support herself comfortably, and look forward to a future that contained the greatest of worldly blessings—plenty of well-paid appreciated work.
She was the fashion now; but there had been a time when she knew not if the next day would give her shelter and food, weary drudge as she was of a daily paper; when she thought longingly of death, and her most earnest prayer was that God would take back the life that was as a heavy burden to her. But God took it not back for all her praying, so she struggled through; and when she sat in the door-way with Harvey Gray her face was brilliant with hope, and that confidence in herself which told you that, woman though she was, and Christian though she called herself, there was nothing she believed in as she did in her own will.
And Harvey Gray loved her. As he looked into her small, earnest face that night, he realized that there was nothing in the world so precious to him as her love; that to call her his wife, to have her ever beside him, would fill his soul and his life with a bliss which no dream of wealth or fame had ever been able to do. He too was young; just beginning life as a physician in the little town where Isabell was spending the summer. He was not a great man, and never would be; but he won the respect and friendship of many men, and the love and sympathy of most true-hearted noble women.
Patient and persevering, very earnest in his profession, perfectly dependable, quick and delicate in his feelings as a woman, with as keen a sense of honor as had Bayard or Sydney, you may wonder a little (as I more than half suspect he did) why such a man wanted Isabell Bernard for his wife.
Certain it is that he liked not her character before he saw her. She was a distant relative of his mother, and he had heard much of her as well as read her books; and while he found in them the passionate insight of the poet, the hater of wrong in every place and circumstance, he said that there was no woman's heart there; that no true man would want Isabell's head, beautiful although it was, upon his bosom; that she was not one to bless a fireside and glorify a home.
(God help us, and forgive us that we so wrongly judge our fellows!)
He had heard how she fascinated men; how for a time she let them come quite near her heart, then said her work was more to her than lover or husband, and went her own way. As it happened he had never seen her, and he made a very significant face when he was told that she was coming to stay the whole summer with her old aunt at Red Hill. He hoped she would be quiet, and not set the whole village into excitement with her own eccentric notions. Of one thing he was sure—he would let her alone; relative though she was, he would show her that one man, at least, loved and respected quiet, womanly women.
By-and-by she came; and, much to the chagrin of our Doctor, every body admired her, from the minister's wife to the little old maid who had passed censorious judgment upon every young woman who had come into the place for the last thirty years. In the houses he most frequented he found her poems; every invalid was sure that Miss Bernard's last article did her more good than the Doctor's last powders; and, in his merry way, he often said how weary he grew of Miss Bernard's perfections; and once even said that authoresses were rather dangerous, as well as very disagreeable persons.
This remark was carried by an unwise female tongue to Isabell's aunt, and the merry, nonchalant remark she made in answer did not tend to heighten Dr. Gray's opinion of her.
One thing he found out very soon: if he cared nothing for her, she possessed an equal share of indifference toward him; and this fact, perhaps, made him consider it perfectly safe to watch her motions whenever he could find the opportunity.
So he studied the bright face; marked the low, sweet brow, shaded by the long, glossy hair; looked long into the eyes, whose clear, tender depths told so much of the heart; then turned to the slender form, the springing, elastic step—surely these were womanly. But the mouth—He was right after all! And yet those full lips—No; he was right at first. She might have a woman's heart—might love—but if she did not think it best, if any thing she chose to call duty came between her and that love, she would count the love as but dust in the balance.
Harvey Gray said all this many times, and yet could not help watching her as she passed his office every morning at mail time. Always tripping along in the same careless yet decided manner, as if the three miles' walk from the farm had no power to tire her; stopping to caress every child whom she met; often speaking to and patting the head of a stray dog; he could not help confessing that there was a strange charm about her, which her very independence heightened. One day as she passed she stopped a moment before his door, where his great dog Lion was lying in the sun. This same Lion only the day before had been drawn into a fight with a companion and been most disgracefully beaten; and what with lacerated ear, hot sun, and impish flies, the poor fellow was decidedly uncomfortable, and giving utterance to his discomfort by a succession of fretful growls. Isabell brushed away the flies, spread her handkerchief over the torn ear, administered a grave rebuke to Lion for his foolishness, then went on, humming, as she often did when walking alone, a little snatch of a favorite opera.
When she disappeared in the Post-office Dr. Gray went out and picked up the handkerchief, although he called himself fool, and many other hard names, as he did so.
After this morning he was always in his office when she passed; and although it may not be worth mentioning, it was about this time that he ceased puzzling himself as to her womanliness. One week he missed her. She did not go to the church, did not come to the village. Had she gone back to the city? What were her movements to him?
That they were something I think he proved by asking the man who came for the farm letters.
"No, she had not gone to the city; she was sick." Dr. Gray did not like the idea at all, it made him restless; and many times he wished that he dared use his relation's right and go down to see her, but the foolish words he had spoken of her kept him away.
** What was the matter with her?"
The man was provokingly indefinite upon that point; sometimes thinking it was a fever, then only a cold.
But one day Dr. Gray found out.
Mrs. Barry, Isabell's aunt, sent for him to come and see Miss Bernard. When he reached the farm Mrs. Howard told him that her niece had been to town, overworked herself, taken a severe cold, and been ailing ever since. "She will not own it," continued the old woman, "insisted that she would not see you, and does not know that I sent." All this was said in a very pleasant way, and Dr. Gray could but hope that the niece would forget his neglect as the aunt had done, although he was not sanguine enough to think that she would. Isabell was asleep.
"I would not wake her; I have nothing else to do; let me sit here and watch her, and I can tell better how sick she is," said the Doctor to Mrs. Barry, who was in great distress to get back to some butter, which she informed the young man she knew her girl was spoiling. And Dr. Gray was decidedly glad to be rid of her rattling tongue.
He sat there and watched Isabell's face for more than an hour.
It was thin and pale—even sad now; but she lay there on the low sofa with all the ease and careless gracefulness of a child.
How foolish, even wrong, had he been to let a mere prejudice keep him from her, when perhaps his care and attention would have prevented this illness, which he knew, by her flushed cheek and labored breathing, was no trifling matter. The hot hand dropped over the side of the sofa; cautiously he put it back again, but the motion woke her. She looked bewildered, but before she had time to speak Harvey said: "I am Dr. Gray, Miss Bernard, a relation of your own, and as I live in the village and heard that you were sick, I thought I would come and see you."
"I am not sick," said Isabell, as she tried to rise; but the motion was too much for her, and if Harvey had not caught her she would have fallen to the floor. "Don't try, Miss Bernard; you are not able to get up; I must give you something to strengthen you."
The words were said almost tenderly; but there was a slight touch of authority in the voice which Isabell did not fancy, so she made a second attempt, but Dr. Gray's arm prevented her, and his face said as plainly as did his lips,
"No, Miss Bernard, lie still."
It was a long time since any one had commanded Isabell; and her eyes said so, which eyes Dr. Gray was not slow to read, and answered them by saying, "Never mind, Miss Bernard, it will do you no harm to yield a little."
She did not resist this time, for indeed she could not; weakness overcame her determination. By a few cautiously put questions Dr. Gray discovered that she had been perplexed by a difficulty with her publisher, and in the midst of the anxiety had been overtaken, thinly clad as she was, by a violent rain, then, instead of taking care of herself, had read proof all day in a damp office. Dr. Gray thought there was small cause for her wonder at the fever and lassitude that prostrated her. He certainly had no reason to complain of her willfulness this time; for even while his fingers were on her wrist she fell asleep, and then and there Isabell Bernard had her first serious illness. One or two nights Harvey Gray said, despairingly, "she will never see morning again." But God spared her, although it was not until autumn that she touched pen once more.
What was her life worth to Harvey Gray?
He asked himself the question many times, and each time answered, "Every thing." He cared not in the least now if she were womanly or not; he could not help loving her; and as he remembered how, in the wild delirium of fever, only his tenderly spoken words had power to hush the mournful histories of her years of struggle and pain; and how, when reason returned, she gave him her first smile and intelligent word he almost hoped that she loved him, not gratefully altogether, but as a woman should love the man—who is to stand only second to God in her heart—who is to be her husband.
Still she puzzled him, and he sometimes told her she had as many moods as there were hours in the day.
And what did he, the calm, consistent man want with her, fitful, capricious as an April day, in all except that she called "her work?"
I do not know. How should I?—he did not know himself. And Isabell?—slowly, most reluctantly, she admitted that Dr. Gray could not be passed by with a smile and shake of the head as so many men had been. She did not like to see any hands but her own touch the flowers he brought her; his step upon the loose gravel of the walk would bring the bright color to her pale cheek as she lay upon the sofa; and when her old demon of work took possession of her Dr. Gray's tenderly spoken entreaty was almost always heeded; and if that was not, the calm command was never disobeyed. At last there came the moment, that comes to all of us women at one time or another, when she was forced to admit to herself that to know that Harvey loved her, and wanted her for his wife, would make her the happiest woman in New England.
And yet—and she buried her head among the pillows as she remembered how she had written many eloquent words to prove that a woman has a work to do apart from husband or children—had she not said, and thought too, that no wife or mother cares should fill up her life and usurp her time? How often she had said as well that this wondrous thing called Love was a good and right pleasant thing for those who had nothing to do in the world, but that its earnest workers could do without it, and must!
And as all these words crowded in upon her mind she would determine that she would not love Dr. Gray, good, noble although he was; she would prove that women can stand on life's battle-field, can struggle side by side with their brother man, and conquer too, if they but trust themselves and their God. So it happened that her manner was capricious and differing toward Harvey Gray. She could not conquer her love for him in a moment, and sometimes she found herself too weak to draw back from the strong love that would have spared her so much of anxiety and toil; so that day she would be gentle as a child, and the next, will being stronger, she would turn aside indifferently, even coldly, from his presence. Harvey noted this, and said many times that he would never seek her again; but never was no longer a word with him than it is with most lovers, and night after night he walked, drove, and talked with her.
He had promised himself that the night of which I shall tell you should certainly be the last—that then and there he would say "Good-by!"
I do not think it is very prudent for a man who has made such a resolution to stand at the door of a lonely farm-house and put his arm around the waist of the woman he loves and take both her hands in his. So you will see we have reached again the place from which we started; and if you think they have been in that door-way a long time, I shall only ask you if you think Harvey Gray dreamed of its being long? At last Isabell spoke:
"I have to go home to-morrow, Dr. Gray."
He knew it. Indeed that was his excuse for coming to see her; but the words startled him, and as he moved a little he felt her form tremble in his grasp.
"Why must you go, Isabell?"
"Why, cousin? Because I shall have to work hard enough this winter to make up for these months of idleness and illness; because I have staid here much longer than I intended, and"—she stopped a moment, for Harvey was drawing her closer and closer to him—"it is getting so pleasant to be helped and taken care of that I shall forget how to take care of myself."
"Why should you ever take care of yourself any more, dear Isabell? I know a home and a heart that will count it a blessing to shelter you from toil and hardship. There has been too much of it in your life already, my darling. Will you come to me, and let me bear it for you evermore?"
She looked in his face, and the thoughtless, trifling words wherein she would have hidden her own great love came not at her bidding. Her lips moved, but no words came from them; so Harvey went on:
"Be my wife, Isabell. You need not words to know how much I love you. Only tell me that you love me."
No eyes could mistake the flush of joy that illumined Isabell's face, least of all could a lover's; and Harvey knew she loved him. Perhaps her lips would not tell him so, but he knew it. For a moment she let him whisper caressing words and press lover's kisses on her face, then drew herself a little from his close hold.
Almost she said the words, "I will be your wife, Harvey." Almost! And then came thoughts of the work she honestly believed she could do better alone.
She was mistaken, certainly; but do not blame her too much. She suffered years for that decision. Slowly, lingeringly, she drew herself from the arms whose shelter was so blissful to her, and from white, quivering lips came the answer: "I can not be your wife, Harvey. We must not think of it again."
"Dear Isabell," began Harvey; but she went on:
"Long years before I knew you I chose my life-work. I said if God will prosper me I will, so long as my life lasts, use the talents that He gave me in aiding my lonely, sorrowful sisters to bear the heavy burden that an unloved life throws upon them. I will try and show them that, weak although we are, we can live alone, suffer alone, and, if need be, die alone. I took my place then and there. Oh! Harvey, would it be right for me to desert them now?" and her whole frame trembled with suppressed emotion.
"My darling, my darling!" and the strong, firm tones quieted her, even while she knew she had no right to such endearing titles. "Can you not do all this with me? Because you give me the right to love you, because you know where to find rest ever—always—will you be more idle, less in earnest, because God has blessed us so much?"
"How could I speak to them, how comfort, strengthen, if I was at rest, in perfect peace, your wife? Would they not turn away sadly, and say, "Happy wife and mother that you are, what know you of our loneliness—our sorrow?"
"And yet you condemn me to it, Isabell?"
"Spare me, Harvey, spare me such words. Do you not think I too must suffer? You have never thought me very loving, very womanly; but if I loved you any more, and yet had to leave you as I do now, I could scarcely bear it. I think I should die."
Once more Harvey told her that this great love of his should be no hinderance to her toil. Be his wife, and each day should show how carefully every obstacle should be cleared from her way. But she was firm.
"Harvey, do you not see? If I were your wife I should not so care for this work of mine. I should be happy, perfectly content in your love—your home and your life would be every thing to me—and I have no right to give myself so blessed a life as that."
"No right, Isabell! Could you not bless others more even by blessing me first?" Years after Isabell saw what he meant, but not then; and passionately as her heart went out to him she would not swerve from her purpose. He told her that he would not give her up—that if they both lived, at one time or another she should be his wife; but she turned away her face even as he said the words, and he caught no glimpse of its white agony. Upon his hand he felt her tears, then for one moment her lips as well, and she went into the house, and I know that Harvey Gray spoke no more love-words for many a year.
They went their separate ways—Isabell to throw herself into her old life with all the heart and strength she could summon, and Dr. Gray to try and consider the last few months as a swiftly-vanished dream. Life looked slightly stale to him—there would be little use in denying that fact; but he was no boy to faint, because when he boldly risked his all he had lost it; and although Isabell was the one gift he most coveted from life, although he had lost her, there were many things that would pay him for living.
And Isabell wrote more than ever; and if praise and flattery had been what she wanted, she would have had enough.
Letters crowded her table. Many women, and some men, looked to her for sympathy, strength, and appreciation; and she gave to all freely, gladly, and her name grew to be a synonym for earnestness and power. Wives and mothers read her books, for they fancied that they found in them the holiest recognition of their own great rights and duties; and solitary women read them in their silent homes, finding as they read hope, comfort, even while their tears fell like rain upon the pages, for well did their own hearts tell them that the woman who could write such words as they read must have dwelt with sorrow and loneliness many days.
Surely it was no light thing that from her own bitter experience sprang so many sweet flowers unto those almost sunless lives. Fathers too would bring home her books to their young daughters, and as they wrote the household name upon the title-page would say, seriously, "May my daughter be such another woman as this authoress!"
Have I words gentle and tender enough to tell how betrothed lovers read them together, nor dreamed, as they sat with clasped hands and heart beating against heart, that a love strong as their own had been sundered to write the words that flushed the cheek and quickened the beating of the two hearts so soon to be one?
Did Isabell ever yearn for the one great love she had left behind? I do her no wrong when I answer "Often." Much she heard of Dr. Gray, never from him; heard how, as years went by, he gained in wealth and honor; how steadily he kept his own way—the way of strictest integrity; and thought of her lonely heart and his desolate home until she grew faint and would think no more. I do not know that she repented her decision; but I wonder not that the mocking question would sometimes make itself heard, "Was your work of sufficient importance that for it you should shadow the life of a noble man like Harvey Gray? Others speak such words as well, it may be better than you—can any love him as you do?"
Oftentimes she would leave her silent study for a twilight walk, and peep longingly into the bright parlors that she passed, note the little children, mark the pleased glance and eagerly received caress of husbands to wives, and the tone would be touchingly submissive as she said, "Such will never be for me!"
Harvey did not marry. In that quiet village there were but few unmarried women, and none ever chanced to come in his way who obscured for a single instant the old love in his heart. He saw almost every thing that Isabell wrote, and said sometimes, as he laid aside book or paper, "I can wait; she will surely be mine at last."
In the course of her busy life Isabell went to Europe, and while there she met a woman who was not more talented and beautiful than she was good. She visited her in her home, saw her children, and marked the love, almost reverence, with which her husband (a man of fine culture) regarded her. The world knew this woman well—knew her as the friend of the poor and ignorant, the honest worker in every pure enterprise; while art placed her name very high among its patrons, for many a young painter blessed her when his foot first pressed the hallowed soil of Italy; and yet she told Isabell, of all her life no hours were so peaceful, so blessed, as those she passed in her own home.
"I have thought sometimes," said the noble woman, "that I would like time to write poems, to live to write as you do, Miss Bernard; but I check the thought when I look at my children, for it is given to me to make their whole lives poems."
Then she told Isabell how, years before, the same question came to her as came to Isabell, and she decided it differently. And Isabell compared the two lives, and saw where she was wrong, on that long-ago night, when she told Dr. Gray she could never be his wife. If the strong human love had not been in her grasp she would have done well without it; but when God placed it there, and she passed it by, saying, proudly, "I can do better without it," she was not right. So she learned a better lesson in that quiet English home than at Shakspeare's grave or Dante's tomb. She came home; but in her absence a new claimant for literary distinctions had usurped her place, and though welcomed and remunerated, she was not, as before, the idol of the reading public.
Soon after her return there appeared in one of the leading magazines of the time a very severe criticism, not alone upon her writings, but reflecting as well upon her character as a woman. One year before she would have cared little for it—would have called it, as it was, petty malice disguised under the garb of dignified criticism; but now, as the thought of her English friend's beautiful life came to her, this article wearied her. She thought, too—and do not call her very weak that the tears came thick and fast as she thus thought—how little she would have cared for these words had her head been on Harvey's breast, and his home her shelter. And Harvey read the unkind, untrue words as he sat in his quiet study, and drew up to his table, and took pen in hand to write Isabell that his home and heart were her own, even as they were ten years ago; but he drew back his hand, taking instead the little miniature she herself had given him, saying as he did so (he had said the words many times), "I can wait. If she ever comes to me, she must come of her own will."
If I had read it in a story I never could have believed that any man could cling thus firmly to an apparently hopeless scheme as did Dr. Gray to this one love of his life.
Some time or other, perhaps not for many a year, but at last she would surely be his wife.
When his diligence and experience had given him command of his profession, and wealth flowed in upon him, he scarcely ever gave place to a new luxury in his small but elegant home that he did not wonder what Isabell would think of it. That beautiful copy of Raphael's Madonna should not be securely fastened to the wall; Isabell might like a stronger light for it. And in his library window, looking toward the south, there stood, at all seasons of the year, a pot of mignonnette, whose little perfumed flowers, Isabell once told him, made all rooms seem homelike to her.
Many a fancy which her youth had known, but which she had laid aside as a whim and childishness, was cherished, almost hallowed, in Dr. Gray's country home. Every year there came to her, very early in the spring, a little box holding the long, delicate clusters of the New England mayflower, and her face, which often looked weary, would be bright for many days; for well she knew whose love remembered the girlish preference, and well she remembered how Harvey Gray was used to tie up her favorite flowers.
You will say, perhaps, that this love is not natural—that no man would love a woman for so many years unless she gave herself to him—and that no woman could thus hold herself from the man whom she loved. I dare say you are right; but I must tell you the truth about it.
One day Dr. Gray stood by a bedside where the great mystery of birth had just been enacted, and where his experienced eye saw that very soon the other great mystery of death would pass upon the mother's soul. She was a poor woman, whom he had known many years—whose whole life had been one weary wrestle with sorrow and poverty; who had given birth to many children, and, one after the other, had given them back again to mother earth, and now must leave this her last one to the care, or the neglect, of a drunken father. As she lay there Dr. Gray saw that all her agony was for this boy; that the dimming eyes would close gladly, even rejoicingly, if the wailing babe could still the beating of its young heart and sleep upon her bosom in the still grave.
"Pray for my baby," came from her pale lips. Dr. Gray knelt unhesitatingly; it was not the first time he had stood between a passing soul and its God. When his voice ceased and he looked up the mother was calmer; and as she motioned him nearer, and began to speak, he was startled to notice her clear, firm tones.
"You are a good man, Dr. Gray, and a rich one. Will you not take my baby, and bring him up as a Christian child should be? A dying mother's blessing shall be yours, and God will reward you evermore."
Death waited not for mother's love; and before Harvey had time to answer she was beyond the sight of mortal eyes.
The request was no small one—Dr. Gray felt that; but the mother's face haunted him all the next day, and before night he hired a nurse and took home his very unexpected and, if the truth must be told, slightly undesirable legacy. His old housekeeper (who had been his mother's) thought, and scrupled not to say, that the Doctor was crazy; and she and the nurse kept up such furious altercations that poor Harvey was fain to consider the baby's crying the pleasanter alternative.
Man-like, he took refuge in his study, and told the women to settle their own battles; and so, for a few months, managed to keep the hostile parties in the same house.
But he found that little Charley's naturally good temper was being soured and fretted by the caprices of the two who managed him, and he found himself obliged to sit down and very seriously consider what he should do. Unconsciously, as they always did when he was thinking, his fingers opened the drawer that held Isabell's picture, and played, in a soft, caressing manner, with her radiant face. "Isabell Bernard," he said, and while the name was on his lips a thought came to him—"I will ask her," he murmured. He wrote, asking her, for the sake of their old interest in each other, to receive his ward into her home, told how good and loving little Charley was, how entirely unfitted his house was for the care and training of a child, then besought her to remember how, years before, she had refused the greatest gift life had for him, and to be gentle with him in this his next request.
I think even the writer who called Isabell "unfeminine" would have confessed himself mistaken could he have read the sweet and simple words that told of her acquiescence in her old lover's proposal. Perhaps said writer might have placed her a little nearer the "common women" he so glorified. "The child might come any day," the letter said, "every thing was ready." I think Harvey was a little disappointed that she did not ask him to accompany the child and its nurse; but she did not, although he went soon after without any invitation.
Of course they came together more after this. The child made a strong mutual interest, and they began to write friendly letters, such as only grave elderly people, who have learned to control themselves, know how to do.
And a lightsome, winsome thing was little Charley Gray, in the house of Isabell Bernard. I have told you—have I not?—how many times she had looked sadly on the blessed mother-faces that drooped to kiss their children's rosy lips. Now she had no need; her little Charley's lips were just as rosy, his soft, clinging arms just as ready for her neck. And discerning people said that she wrote better books, that there must be some new happiness in the author's life; it was as if she wrote only in the sunlight. And so strong grew her love for young children that she was never too busy to see the whole troop of little ones who would come to see Miss Bernard for a few minutes before school.
As she watched little Harry's frolics her heart grew very tender toward the child-faces that she saw every day in the street, where sin, want, and neglect almost obscured the Divine impress—thank God, only almost.
"Could she not do something for them?"
She earned more than enough each year to support herself; the rest she had put by against the time when she should no longer have strength of hand and vigor of mind to work; but that time looked very far away from her now, for she had just begun to find the childish faith that could say, "God will see to you, if you do not neglect his little ones now."
She did not speak of her plan, even to Harvey Gray, but she thought of it through many a twilight hour as she sat with Charley upon her knee; and in early summer she rented a pleasant house by the sea-side, placed a woman in whom she fully confided at its head, then went into the narrow alleys and close, dirty streets to pick up her family.
It was all done very quietly; but before three months she had as many as her house would hold. Then her plan becoming known, and money and willing hands coming to her aid, before a year the thing that started in a simple woman's love and Christian compassion became one of the recognized charities of the State.
The love those homeless children lavished upon her no words of mine can tell you, nor can I say how each one longed for the hour when she, accompanied always by little Charley, came to them. They were by no means perfect. Those only who have gathered such, and tried to teach them, will understand me when I say it was hard work; but Isabell loved them, and almost always the mention of her name enabled her assistants to quell childish strife and disobedience. In after years, when those children took their places in the world, they said no words more proudly than these: "We are Mother Isabell's children."
But still she grew not much nearer to Harvey Gray; and he said, almost despairingly, "Her heart is in her work as much now as it was when she slipped from my grasp so many years since." He was right, too. She was finding rest, peace, in her children, and although at first. she loved Charley for the old love's sake, he was now taking the first place in her heart; but the child had done his work, and although Isabell knew it not, the angels knew he would soon stand by his mother in heaven. One night Isabell thought him slightly sick, and the next morning sent for Dr. Gray, and for many days they tended him with the most loving care; but love and care availed not, even Dr. Gray said he must die.
Together they watched the little life ebb away, then Harvey took the motionless form from Isabell's arms, laid it tenderly upon the bed, then placed his arm around Isabell, and with gentle, almost caressing words, tried to hush the wild sobs that, calm and self-possessed woman as she was, shook her frame.
Excited, weary, hardly knowing what she said, she told Harvey how dreary her life was before Charley came to her, sobs prevented her from telling how desolate she should be without him. Her tears fell more quietly at last, and Harvey pressed her head upon his shoulder and she fell into that heavy sleep grief often produces. She did not wake, even when kind hands dressed Charley in his last earthly garment, and it was not until noon that she opened her eyes. Dr. Gray left her an hour before: he knew her well enough to feel that when she woke, calm and herself, she would rather be alone with her sorrow and her God.
They returned from the sunny hill-side, henceforth to be sacred to them as Charley's grave, and sat down together in the desolate house that seemed to echo only the lost music of Charley's voice. A few commonplace words Isabell tried to speak, but her voice trembled so that she took refuge in silence, and the shadows grew longer and longer on the parlor floor.
At length, impelled by one of those strong impulses that sway men's souls so many times in their lives, Harvey Gray rose and stood before Isabell.
Much of the earnestness and strength that this great love of his had gathered during all the years it had been hidden in his own heart expressed itself in his voice as he whispered, rather than said,
"Isabell, is it your will that this child-life and child-grave should be only another memory linking our hearts together in the past, and making more desolate and dreary the rest of life? Must I leave you to-night, as I have so many nights, alone, with an added sorrow and a lonelier heart? You want not words to know how more than life I love you; you know all these years your own will has alone kept me from your side. Must it be so still? Will you still refuse to be my wife, Isabell? Will you still refuse the home that has waited for you so many years? God help you, my darling, who should be my wife, to decide aright!"
The room was very silent; then Isabell said,
"Your wife, Harvey, I am in nowise worthy to be. I have known that these many years—ever since I answered you upon that one night we stood together. But, Harvey, I have prayed God to forgive me; and if you will—if no distrust of me is in your heart—most thankfully will I be your wife."
Then, lower, the words that Harvey stooped his head to hers before he could hear:
"I can not love you more than I have all these years. God only knows how hard I have struggled many times to keep you from standing in His place in my heart."
The words were enough for Dr. Gray. His hair had many white waves upon its glossy surface; his face was marked by many a furrow; but the arm that drew Isabell to his breast had lost none of its old-time vigor; and the heart against which she leaned beat none the less strongly and warmly that it was so many years since a woman's delicate head had lain there. I never knew that Isabell regretted her marriage, for married she was when the grass that covered little Charley was a month old. She gave her husband the first place in her heart and the best portion of her time; but after that was done she still found many minutes, even hours, of leisure, and in these she worked hard at her chosen vocation.
Neither were her children neglected; not even for a day were they forgotten.
Year after year she gathered them into the home her own hands had earned for them; and as one and another went from its doors to do a man's or a woman's work in the world, each one said "God bless her!" and for some of them the world blessed her too.
Children of her own God gave her, and she loved them none the less that she knew so much more than most women; and her husband said, proudly, that in all his calls he saw none kinder or more loving toward their parents than were theirs.
I would that I could tell you how infinitely blessed they were during the years they lived together; how, as age came upon them, they drew close to each other; and when their children's children were old enough to talk of love and lovers, not the most romantic girl of them all asked to love and be loved more than these two old people.
Among the children that stood at Isabell's knee there was more than one noble, high-spirited girl, who, in her eagerness to do some great thing for the world, would have thrown away a great love as Isabell once did; but the story I have told you always sent such away silent, thoughtful, and the next time they came one was with them who would be to them as Harvey was to Isabell.
It was very pleasant to notice how, if any one spoke of Isabell's books, said this or that was more loving, more genial, told of more experience, would do more good than another, she would say, with a pleasant air, "I wrote that after I was married. You remember where, Harvey?" And Harvey always remembered.