CHAPTER II.
The next morning the weather was clear and the air invigorating, as is often the case after a severe storm. With my neighbor Jenks I procured a good home for the wanderer, and in a short time he was located in it.
I was soon seated by his side, and he continued his narrative.
"I told you last evening of my parents, and of my entrance upon business life. About that time a great sorrow visited me. My mother was taken sick, rapidly declined, and in a fortnight left this state of existence. Beyond this world it seemed all dark to me then; but now it is brighter there than here, and there is no uncertainty in my mind respecting that coming state.
"I have not told you she died. She did not die. There is no such word as death in my vocabulary. She did not sleep even. She passed from a crumbling, falling building into an enduring and beautiful temple, not made with hands. But to me, then, as I have told you, it was all dark; and it was not a wonder that I was sad, and that it was indeed a heavy sorrow that rested on my spirit. Even with the faith that she had, the thought of being left with a man such as my father was would have made me sad. You will wonder, perhaps, that I had not learned from such a mother as mine a clearer faith than that which possessed my mind at the time of her departure; but I had not. It was impossible for me to accept a truth with that amount of evidence which satisfied her mind, and I doubted, at times, a future existence. But I do not doubt it now. I have had proof,—abundant proof; and, O, the joy that fills my soul is unfathomable.
"My father now became more tyrannical than ever, and everything tended to destroy whatever there was of my mother's disposition in my character. But nothing could force it from me. I was sensitive as ever to the remarks and the looks of all with whom I came in contact, and the severe and unmerited reprimands of my father almost crushed me.
"Several years passed by. I wasted them in a retail store. It was, however, not a complete loss to me, for there I formed an acquaintance with a young lady, the daughter of a poor collier. Our friendship ripened to mutual love, and we were happy only when in each other's presence. Our interviews were frequent, and unknown to any one but ourselves for a long time. At length my father became acquainted with the facts. He called me to his room one night, and scolded me, threatened to disinherit me, and treated me as though I had been guilty of the most heinous crime.
"'You miserable, good-for-nothing scamp!' said he. 'Why do you seek to lower yourself in the estimation of every man, and bring disgrace on the name and fame of my family, by associating with the poor daughter of a worthless laborer?'
"This fired my brain; but I was timid and dare not speak my thoughts in his presence. I listened. He showered upon me all the evil epithets his tongue could dispense, and, raving like a madman, he pushed me to the door, and told me to cease my visits upon Evelina or leave his house forever and change my name, for he would not shelter me, or own any relationship to me.
"Poor girl! She little thought how much I that night endured for her, or how much I was willing to bear. She was a beautiful being,—so much like my mother, so gentle, and loving, and benevolent! We were one. True, no earthly law recognized us as such; but God's law did,—a law written with his hand on our beating hearts. We had been joined far, far back, ages gone by, when our souls first had their birth,—long ere they became enshrined in earth forms. The church might have passed its ceremonial bond about us, but that would have been mere form—that would have been a union which man might have put asunder, and often does. But of a true union of souls it is useless to say 'what God has joined let no man put asunder;' for he cannot any more than he can annul any other of his great laws.
"My father's reprimands and threatenings could not, therefore, dissolve that bond which united me to Evelina, and she to me. So, as soon as I left his room, I sought her presence. I told her all, and she wept to think of what she had caused, as she said. But I tried to convince her, and succeeded in doing so finally, that it was not she who had caused it. She had not made her soul or its attributes. God had made them, and if they were in unison with mine, or if they had attractions that drew my. soul to hers, the law under which they came together and would not be separated was God's law, and we could not escape it.
"That night we walked down by the river's side, and we talked of those great principles that govern us. We studied, there in the clear moonlight, God's works, and I asked her whether in loving the beautiful and the good we did not love God.
"Her mind opened a bright effulgence of light to my spirit. 'Yes,' said she, 'it is even so. God is a spirit. He fills immensity,—and if so, then he imbues this little flower with his own life, for he is the life of all things. It is as he made it, and as we love it we love him. When we love a being for his goodness, we love God; for that goodness is of God."
"'Yes,' I remarked; 'I see it is so. I do not love you as a material being. It is not your flesh and bones merely that I love, but it is the goodness dwelling in you. As that goodness is more abundant in you than in others, in like degree does God dwell in you more than in them. If, therefore, I love you more than I love them, I love God more than I should did my supreme love find its highest object in them. In loving you, therefore, I love God so far as you possess the characteristics by which we personify that being. It is not wrong, therefore, to love you or the flower; for goodness exists in one, and beauty in the other, and they both are of God, and in loving them we love God.'
"We parted at a late hour. I went with her to the door of the little cottage in which she dwelt with her father. Her mother had died, as they call it, long years before; and, as I kissed her, and pressed her hand and bade her good-by, I felt more strongly than ever a determination to bear any privation, endure any suffering, for her sake.
"I reached my home. I found the doors fastened and all quiet. The moon shone very clear, and it was nearly as light as at noon-day. I tried the windows, and fortunately found one of them unfastened. I raised it very carefully, and crept in, and up to my room. The next morning at breakfast my father spoke not a word, but I knew by his manner that he was aware of my disregard of his command, and I thought that all that prevented him from talking to me was a want of language strong enough to express the passionate feelings that ran riot in his soul.
"I judged rightly. For at night his passion found vent in words, and such a copious torrent of abuse that I shuddered. Nevertheless, I yielded not one position of my heart, and was conscious that I had a strength of purpose that would ever defend the right, and could not be swayed by mere words.
"There was no limit to my father's abuse when it became known to a few of his friends that I had been seen in company with the collier's daughter. I endured all, and was willing to endure more. He seemed to have a peculiar dislike of Evelina's father, as also to her. This I could not account for.
"At length I became of age, and on my birthday my father called me to him, and, in his usual stern, uncompromising way, asked me if I persisted in paying attention to Evelina. I answered promptly that I did. I had had so many conflicts that I had lost much of my timidity, and I now defined my position clear, and maintained it resolutely.
"'Then leave my house at once!' said my father. 'I throw you from me as I would a reptile from my clothes; and go, go with my curse upon you! Take your penniless girl, and build yourself a name if you can; for you have lost the one you might have held with honor to yourself and to me. I had chosen for you a wife, a rich and fashionable lady, the daughter of a nobleman, and one of whom to be proud; but you have thought best to be your own judge in such matters, and you made a fool of yourself. But you shall not stamp my family with such folly, or wed its name to dishonor.'
"I endeavored to reply; but he would hear no word from my lips. He sprang from his seat, walked the room in the greatest rage, and whenever I opened my mouth to speak would shout, 'Stop your noise, you ungrateful, heartless wretch!'
"He was determined to carry out his threat. That night he locked me out of the house, and took special pains to make the windows fast. In the papers of the next day he advertised me as disinherited and cast off, and warned the world against me. He also circulated false reports respecting me, and spared neither money nor effort to injure me. He prejudiced my employers, so that they at once discharged me, without a moment's warning. And all this from a father! How often I thought of that loving, sympathizing mother! How often I recognized her presence in my silent hours of thought! Dear, sainted friend! she was with me often, unseen but not unfelt.
"Evelina faltered not. She bore all the opprobrium of false friends with a brave heart, and rested on my promises as the dove rests its weary head beneath its downy wing. Her father had confidence in me.
"It was astonishing how changed all things were. The day previous, I was the son of a wealthy and influential man. I was respected, apparently, by all. Very many professed a friendship for me, and told me how much they valued my company. Young ladies politely recognized me as I passed through the streets; and old ladies singled me out as an example for their sons to follow. But on that day no one knew me. Not one of those who had professed such friendship for me came and took me by the hand when I needed their friendly grasp the most! Young ladies, when we met, cast their glances on the earth, on the sky, anywhere but on me. Old ladies scandalized me, and warned the objects of their paternal consideration against a course like mine.
"And why all this? It was because I loved Evelina,—a poor man's only child!"