Newspaper Page Text
2
He had scarcely completed the sentence
when the door bell rang, and before he
could give Mary the history of his ac
quaintance with this young man, the card
was presented, and the servant had orders
to show him in.
“Why, Herbert, I am delighted to see
you again.”
“Well, Mortie, old fellow, how are you?
Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss
McClellan, Mr. Lynne. Mary, this is the
friend I was giving you a description of
when he entered.” She acknowledged
the introduction in her graceful, vivacious
way, and was soon engaged in animated
conversation with the young divine.
She was a pretty, petite blonde, and was
a favorite with the students at West Point.
Truly, it seems that there are natures
formed for each other, else why the invol
untary start which is experienced by a
sensitive person when suddenly coming
face to face with one in whom your very
thoughts and your purest and holiest feel
ings are repeated ? Joyful hearts convey
the news through the light of the eyes.
Such was the experience of Mary and
Mortimer. When their eyes met they re
vealed mysterious truths of unfathomable
depths. Who can sound the depths of a
divinely gifted nature ? It is a part of
God, and, like Him, must remain to the
finite mind, incomprehensible. Surely
angels must love to bear witness to earth
ly demonstrations of so divine a nature,
when eyes look into eyes and speak the
language of the soul.
Mortimer prolonged his stay at West
Point at the urgent request of theMcClel
lan family, with whom he became quite a
favorite—with the exception of Mr.
McClellan, who, being skeptical in his re
ligious views, looked askant upon all theo
logians, and was pained to see the ripening
friendship between his daughter and
Lynne.
********
“Darling, I must leave you to-morrow,
but when I finish my course and am
settled as pastor of some church, I shall
come for jou, shall I not, sweet Mary?
And we will be happy together.” She
answered not, but their lips met in cling
ing kisses, and his strong arms encircled
her form, while her head rested against
his bosom, hearing his heart-beats —so
loudly they seemed trying to testify to
the truthfulness of his words.
“Mary, do you think there will ever
come to you a regret that you have chosen
for your life companion a minister? You
know, my precious, we feel deeply the
Bible Injunction, ‘Bear ye one another’s
burdens,’ and to follow the footsteps of our
Saviour must necessarily be accompanied
by self-sacrifice.”
“Oh, Mortie, how I long to know more
and more of God’s great sacrifice for us.
I have tried to live a Christian, but father
ridicules religion so. Pray for him, Mortie.
How gladly I will share your burdens, and
feel, in so doing, that God has greatly
honored me, and it may be, sometimes
when you are over-weary, I shall rest you
with sweet home comforts. My touch
shall chase away your brain-throbs and
my kisses make you forget your heart
burdens.” She started at the noise of a
loosened stone that suddenly fell over
ledge after ledge of rock, until it splashed
into the water two hundred feet below.
They thought it must have been the result
of some wandering footstep, but saw no
one. They were standing underneath a
ledge of rock, overlooking the Hudson
River many feet below. In the distance a
handsome steamer was seen approaching,
and sweet strains of music floated to them
over the water; the setting sun made the
numerous cascades sparkle like millions of
jewels against their gray, rocky back
ground. Sweet wild roses pressed their
pink cheeks against the cold rock, from
the cleft of which peeped the fern, and the
broad-leaved cactus rested like a crown
upon the brow of the rugged cliff.
In this charming spot stood Mortimer
and Mary, not dreaming of a listener
other than the feathered songsters seeking
their nests. All nature seemed to be in
sympathy with them, except (and Mary
shuddered when she heard it) the moan of
a dove calling for her lost mate. “Oh,
Mortimer,” and she drew closer to him,
“the moan of that bird seems to me a pre
lude to coming sorrow.”
“Qh, no, darling, do not indulge such
sad fancies. But we must return; your
mother will wonder at our prolonged ab
sence. Good-bye, I shall not have the op
portunity to say good-bye to-morrow.”
Oh, the happiness that knew no shadow,
save that occasioned by the little cloudlet
of brief separation.
On reaching the house, Mrs. McClellan
asked Mary if she had seen her father in
her walk. He had been absent sometime,
and a friend had called to see him. Mary
could not help thinking of the loosened
rock, but she answered in the negative.
• « ♦ • * «
Six years later, in a neat looking cottage
at Blowing Rock, North Carolina, with
its white pine floor and old-fashioned fur
niture, sat a pretty young woman with
pensive face. She did not seem to be in a
congenial atmosphere. Her manner be
spoke the woman of culture and luxury.
In the distance she saw a horseman ap
proaching. How amazed she was when
she saw it was a soldier, and a Confeder
ate. He stopped before the gate and ques
tioned a passing man. She supposed he
must be making inquiries. He alighted,
and on reaching the door she thought she
heard him call her name—something in
the voice made her shudder. Being in
formed by opened-eyed, gaping-mouthed,
good, plain Mrs. Brown that a “soljer had
cum ter see her,” she requested that he be
admitted. He entered, and Mrs. Fremont,
with a cry, rushed to meet him, opening
wide her arms as if for embrace ; and then
she remembered, and with the remem
brance came pain; the embrace was not
given. A deadly pallor spread over her
face, and she seemed about to fall, when
Mortimer Lynne came to her support.
“Mary, my darling,” he was about to
exclaim, but bethought himself in time,
and said: “I came to see Mrs. William
Fremont, but never dreamed of finding
this lady in the person of my old-time
friend. I never thought to have the pleas
ure of seeing you again.” He placed a
chair for her, and arranged that she might
be comfortable. Up to this time she had
not been able to utter a word, but she now
extended her hand and addressed him in
her old-time way.
“Mortimer, this is such a surprise, but I
am rejoiced to see you. Forgive my im
pulsiveness. The years have been so full
of changes and excitement, I am constant
ly on the qui vine, but, as you are seeking
me, you must be the bearer of news. I
tremble lest it be evil. I have had no tid
ings of my husband since the battle of
Chickamauga, and the suspense has been
almost unendurable.” Mortimer was
growing more and more embarrassed. How
strange it all seemed! He had not dream
ed of this painful duty; painful under any
circumstances, but to convey such news to
the only woman he had ever loved, and to
witness her sorrow, —could he be brave
enough ?
“Mary, we have so long been separated;
we meet in such a strange manner, and the
days are so full of bloodshed and peril,
with your permission,! will read a portion
of God’s word, and together we will sup
plicate Him.” Opening a little pocket
Bible, his constant companion, he read the
91st. Psalm, and then they knelt in prayer.
Oh, such a prayer I Hearts were poured
into it, broken hearts, but the Healer came,
and they grew calm in His spiritual pres
ence.
After a few moments silence, Mortimer
took Mary’s hand, saying, “I do not ask
you now for an explanation, but do re
quest that you give me a brother’s privi
lege, let me be of any comfort and help
to you that may be possible.” She said
nothing, her heart was so full, but bowed
her head in assent.
“And now, my dear sister, I do indeed
bring you sad tidings. I fought in the
battle of Chickamauga. I was one of
General Bragg’s men, while your husband
was under General Rosecrans. After the
battle, I gave what relief I could to the
wounded and dying, and then withdrew
within the secrecy of a copse-wood near
by, that I might supplicate God for de
parting souls, when I heard the groans of
a dying man. Mary, he was your hus
band. I did not know it then, but now I
do.” Mortimer, with choked voice, told
her everything. She did not cry aloud,
but her head drooped and drooped until it
rested on his shoulder. He held her hand.
They sat thus in silence for about an hour,
when Mortimer gently withdrew and sent
good Mrs. Brown to her, who persuaded
her to lie down, all the while trying to
speak words of consolation.
Mrs. Fremont, being greatly prostrated
by her sudden sorrow, kept her bed the
remainder of the day. Mrs. Brown went
out to look after the wants of the soldier,
and he was kindly cared for by this hos
pitable woman. Next day he saw Mrs.
Fremont again. Travelling at this time
was difficult, and Mortimer tried to per
suade her to remain where she was for a
while, saying that he would try to see her
again soon, but he must return to his post
of duty. He hoped the war would soon
cease.
Mrs. Fremont could not endure the
thought of such distance between herself
and him who now seemed her only friend,
and she insisted that he would take her to
some point where she would be nearer to
him. Mortimer, considering her health
and sorrow, did not think it best to take
her where she would catch every breath
of the tidingsof war. He could only think
of that picturesque place then known as
Eseeola; but there she would have no
congeniality. He told her of the lovely
WOMAN’S WORK.
place, and told her just what simple folk
she must live among. She was anxious to
go, and insisted that he take her there.
So it was decided that she should go to
Eseeola. Mortimer, knowing her love for
rugged nature, believed that she would
here find comfort in her pencil and brush,
for here was everything to delight the eye
of an artist. Next day a rude, but sub
stantial conveyance, suited to the moun
tain road, stopped at the door of Mrs.
Brown. Mortimer was to do the driv
ing, and the owner of the team was to ride
his horse. The day was beautiful, and the
autumn air was bracing. Mortimer was
a careful, gentle driver, often stopping to
rest, and because of his carefulness and
thoughtfulness, Mary did not find the jour
ney so fatiguing as she might otherwise
have done. They rested over night at the
house of a mountaineer, and reached Esee
ola the next day about sunset. If the
Green family had been astonished at the
first appearance of Captain Lynne, their
amazement now was beyond control, and
elicited many ejaculations that sounded
weird to the cultivated ear. Peter came
to meet them, and after a few moments
conversation with Captain Lynne, Mrs.
Fremont was assisted gently from the
conveyance by Mortimer, and led to the
house. She was not surprised at the sur
roundings, having been prepared for it be
fore her arrival.
Gentle-hearted, rough-handed Mrs.
Green felt almost like taking her in her
arms, “she was sich a delikat critter.’’ Her
little hands and feet, her soft, white skin,
were themes of pleasant conversation with
Daphnie Ann and Mrs. Green for days af
terwards. A very narrow, rough little
room adjoining the one of all work was
given to Mrs. Fremont, but the bed which
it contained was clean and comfortable
and was made of feathers which Mrs. Green
had picked from geese of her own raising.
Mortimer remained with the Green fam
ily for several days, and in the meantime
busied himself making little brackets to
fasten against the wall in Mary’s room,
for her toilet accessories. Mary covered
them with dainty bits of white muslin, to
match that with which she had draped the
little window with its plain board shuttfer.
Clusters of golden-rod and autumn leaves
hid many a rough place in the wall, until
the little room seemed to smile, clothed in
rustic beauty. On one of the brackets, un
derneath the picture of her husband, she
kept a vase filled with sweet wild flowers,
such flowers as she had never seen grow
ing elsewhere. Mortimer had made her a
rude table. On this she put her Bible
and her writing desk.
After time and again requesting the
family to be careful for Mrs. Fremont’s
comfort, he told her he must return to his
post of duty. Noble, self-sacrificing Cap
tain Lynne ! He had unexpectedly come
ink, the presence of the only woman he
had ever loved, yet whom he believed had
been false to him, but he forgave her all,
and did not even ask an explanation.
Mary walked with him to the spring, he
leading his horse. They sat down on a
large moss-grown rock, for their parting
words. Mortimer promised to return so
soon as possible, and, kneeling there, he
committed hei to the keeping of a merci
ful, tender, loving God; after this he lin
gered not for words, but, quickly kissing
her unsuspecting lips, mounted his horse
and rode rapildly away.
Ought he to have kissed her ? With it
came the remembrance of that sweet June
evening seven years before, and the same
emotions shook his being. He tried to
crush the feeling, because he thought, ‘‘she
is my sister now.” Had he not a right to
kiss her ? Did not their strange environ
ments justify it ? And they might never
meet again, and he loved her so ! Mary
watched him until he was out of the for
est, and then she wept bitterly. Poor,
lonely Mary! I almost weep at the
thought of her. She sat where he had
left her, until the morning was nearing
noonday, and Daphnie Ann came in
search of her and insisted that she return
to the house.
[The remainder of this interesting story will
be given in our next issue. Subscribe at once
and do not miss the many good things in store
for our readers.]
There may be conduct on the part of a
parent which should exonerate his child
from further obligation to him ; but there
cannot be action conceivable which should
absolve the parent from obligation to serve
his child, seeing that for that child’s exis
tence he is himself responsible.
—George Eliot.
I beseech you, gentlemen, to put your
trust and your faith in work. * * •
* * ♦ I, who have been nothing but
a worker, am a witness to its marvellously
soothing effects upon the soul. The work
1 allude to is daily work; the duty of
moving one step forward in one’s allotted
task every day.
—Zola.
For Woman’s Work.
IN A HAMMOCK.
H AHAT did our great-grand-moth-
TcJyVZ ers do without hammocks ? Did
c) they have to sit primly in those
severely high-backed chairs on
August afternoons, I wonder. Alas for
them, that they knew not the restfulness
and sweet indolence of reclining in a ham
mock ! Still they lived to a good old age;
perhaps, though they did not understand
the “technique of rest” as well as we do,
they knew better how to live leisurely and
methodically. They did not suffer physi
cal exhaustion,they cultivated repose and
healthful exercise, and were not afflicted
with that modern fraility—nerves. How
serene of countenance was that old lady in
the wonderful cap—my great-grand-moth
er—whose portrait used to hang in our
parlor! The world did not move by steam
and electricity in her day I Life was
peaceful and slow. She spun and wove
with her maidens, like a noble Roman ma
tron of old. But there must have come
times of lassitude and leisure; when the
cedar chest was full of homespun, the old
“press” stocked with linen, the patchwork
pieced during the long winter evenings,
quilted and folded away, the year’s sup
ply of candles molded, the vinegar, cider
and wines, safe in the cellar, the broad
shelves of the pantry laden with quaint
earthen jars of preserves, marmalades and
sweet pickles, when plenty reigned in
larder and store-house:—surely then there
was a laxity of house-wifely vigilance.
What could have been lacking but a ham
mock to make idleness a joy I Surely those
thrifty dames would have felt a strange
thrill of luxury if they could have spent
one such August afternoon as this—lazily,
gently, dreamily swinging in a hammock!
When the world around you lies hushed
beneath the Southern sun; when the birds
only trill a drowsy note now and then,
and no other sound breaks the stillness, ex
cept the whispering of the breeze among
the foliage of the orange grove or the tin
kle of a distant cow bell, or the cackling
of an industrious hen; indolence seems to
bind creation as with a spell. The en
chantment is not broken, as a negro on a
mule plods slowly, contentedly along the
road; they are a fitting part of the sleepy,
semi-tropical landscape. The golden sun
light steals softly to the piazza’s edge and
lingers there; it does not reach the cool
corner, where swings the hammock.
Orange trees, heavy with the green fruit
that sun-rays will kiss until it is golden,
screen our little nook from warmth and
brightness. A red bird shows a flash of
brilliant color on the green back-ground,
pipes its clear, sweet note, and flits away.’
The senses are lulled by peace and beauty;
the Past burdens not memory—the Future
intrudes not its doubts and mysteries*
thought is but an airy tissue of dreams;’
contentment is made perfect by the com
panionship which is dearest. There is the
odor of the cigar on the air; somebody in
a great willow chair says something low
and pleasant to hear—that is in keeping
with the loveliness of the day—a tender
word or two, a smile that we know and
love. After awhile, something—perhaps
the fresh breeze—stirs a bit of latent ener
gy ; a needle and thimble are found, and
there is at least a pretense of sewing. The
somebody in the willow chair begins to
read aloud. It is a bright “summer” story,
full of life and what our critics call
ment”—just the kind we like to hear
when bodily and mentally averse to exer
tion ! It is purely, delightfully amusing:
blessings on the writer’s head who in this
day of theological, socialistic and profound
ly discoursive fiction, will lend his pen to
what makes us simply, childishly merry I
Full of harmless persiflage and the gayest
good-humor that brings only wholesome,
refreshing laughter. The deep masculine
voice grows animated with interest in the
story ; we exchange glances, and a smile,
and we are happy.
And so the hours melt away; as day
vanishes there comes the sure conviction
that few things in life are more sweetly
idyllic and restful than such an afternoon
in a hammock.
Howard Meriwether Lovett.
Let every man be occupied, and occu
pied in the highest employment of which
his nature is capable, and die with the
consciousness that he has done his best.