CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW PHASE OF FEELING.
The next morning after the arrival of Mose, as Hesper was at work in her chamber, there came a light tap at the door.
“Come in,” she said, and Mose entered.
“Hesper,” he said, as he took a seat by her side, “there was one thing that I did not have an opportunity to speak to you about last night, so I thought I would come to you this morning. When I was in Canton with Harry, we often sat down together, and talked about home folks. The poor fellow’s heart yearned sadly after his friends, and if he didn’t think it would seem altogether too unmanly to leave such good business as he is in at present, I don’t believe he would stay there another day. He often mentioned you, for he said that of all his playmates, there was not one who seemed nearer or dearer to him than you; and then, Hesper, you must forgive me, but I couldn’t help telling him what a patient, true-hearted sister you were: How thoughtful, industrious, and”—
“Fie, Mose!” said Hesper, blushing deeply—“He must have thought you wanted to recommend me.”
“Not by any means! for it was altogether unnecessary, as he thought full enough of you already. I let him read all your letters.”
“Why, Mose! I wouldn’t have thought it! I only wrote them for you, and they weren’t fit for any one else to see.”
“Harry thought they were, though, for he read them again and again, and then he asked me if I supposed you would be willing to write such letters to him. He said he was often very lonely so far away from home, and sometimes discouraged, but if he could be expecting such pleasant little messengers from you, it would put new life into his heart and strength into his hands, and he could be more content to remain there, so long as duty or necessity demanded. I told him I had no doubt you would be willing, for you were always glad to do anything that would make another happy. More than that, Hesper, I will say, that although Harry is one of the kindest, best hearted fellows in the world, yet he isn’t what he should be. I love him as I do an own brother, but then I saw that he was easily led into temptation, and liked a good time a little too well. Now this would be precisely the reason why some people would advise you not to write him, but I don’t think so.”
“No, no;” said Hesper. “It’s love, not hatred, that calls back the erring, and I should be the last one to turn away from Harry in such a case.”
“He isn’t a bad fellow by any means,” said Mose—“only inclined to be wild and thoughtless. You can have more influence with him than any one, Hesper, and therefore I say write to him by all means, for there is no knowing what dangers your kind and encouraging words may save him from.”
“I will, most certainly,” replied Hesper, earnestly—“But, then,” she added with some hesitation, “I don’t know how to begin. I would much rather he should write to me first.”
“Which he has done,” said Mose, as he drew a small package from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. “He gave me that, the day I left, and as he put it into my hand, he said—’Mose speak a good word for me to your sweet sister, for though I am sometimes wrong in head, yet I’m true at heart, and shall remain so, if Hesper will consent to be my guiding star.”
There was a somewhat nervous movement to Hesper’s fingers as she attempted to untie the string. As the knot did not yield readily, she clipped it at once with her scissors—tore off the wrapper in haste, and there was a letter and another likeness of Harry.
“Now,” said Mose, as he rose from his seat, “I will leave you to your own reflections, but let me suggest, that if you answer that letter, you must do so soon, for the next mail starts in the course of a few days.”
Scarcely had Mose left the room, when Hesper commenced reading her letter, and we shall consider it no betrayal of confidence, if we give an exact copy.
“My Dear Little Wife:
For so I must ever call you. It seems very awkward, at first, to think of writing to you, but I feel that I must, for my heart is very full, and I wish to awaken an answering spirit in return. The sight of your brother Mose, and the long conversations we have had together about home, has made me almost wish to be a boy again, and to wander hand in hand with you over my native hills once more. It is nearly three years now since we parted, and time must have made some important changes in us both, but I hope it has not touched the blessed affection of our childhood. You are in your eighteenth year now, and I in my twenty-third, therefore we cannot think of each other precisely as we did. I am no longer the wild, careless boy, who ran races with Bose along the seashore, or climbed the hickory trees to shake down the ripened nuts for you. Neither are you now, the little round faced girl whom I so often dragged to school on my sled, or carried over the brook in my arms, when it was so swollen as to overflow the stepping-stones. We loved each other very much then—as much as if we were brother and sister, but I do not want you to think of me as a brother now. The morning I parted from you on the wharf, you threw your arms about my neck, kissing me again and again, as the tears streamed down your rosy cheeks. I said to you—be my good “little wife” till I come back, and then you shall be my wife in reality. You only answered, as you clasped your arms still more closely—’O Harry! Harry! How much I shall miss you!’
After the boat reached the ship, I took the glass, and looking out, I saw that same little girl standing upon the cap-log of the wharf, with her hands shading her eyes, and gazing earnestly towards the ship. Bless her dear good heart! I said to myself, there is not one who thinks more of me than she, and I was glad to know that I should be remembered by one so faithful and true. I have seen some hard experience since then—have fallen into various temptations and done many wrong things, for I grew careless and forgetful. But when Mose came, and I read your letters, so tender, so thoughtful and kind, I longed to be good again, and to have you write such letters to me, only do not write as if I were your brother. O no: Hesper. We are what may be called a young man and woman now, therefore I would have you love me with a different love, which shall grow broader and deeper as time rolls on, and at length unite our hearts as one forever. Hesper, if you will be my guiding star, I shall learn to love all that is high, and noble, and worthy. I shall have something certain to love and labor for, and something to remind me of God and holy things in this heathenish land. Perhaps you think that you are yet too young to turn your mind to such things; but no, Hesper, you are plenty old enough to know whether you can love your old companion more than as a brother; old enough too to think of the new relations and responsibilities which life may bring, and to prepare for them gradually. You can do me much good if you will, Hesper, for there is nothing awakens a young man’s better feelings more effectually, however wayward he may be, than to know that a true hearted, pure minded woman loves him, prays for him, and is willing to trust her happiness to him.
In two years more I shall be home again—’Home again!’ How those words make my heart throb and dim my eyes as I write them! Then, as I clasp your hand in mine, and look upon your well remembered face once more, may it not be with the thought that I am never to be parted from you again? O Hesper! do not take away this great and pleasant hope from me, but write to me words of strength and encouragement, and both God and my own heart shall bless you. Write to me soon, for I shall wait most anxiously to hear from you.
Yours truly,
Harry.”
Hesper read this letter with a throbbing heart and tearful eyes, and when she had finished it, she laid her face upon the table and wept freely.
“Why!” she said at length, as she brushed away her tears, “there was nothing in that letter to make me weep! How foolish I am!” With an effort at self-control she arose and walked the floor a few moments, then, observing the miniature, she took it and looked at it long and thoughtfully. Her face gradually assumed a serene and beautiful expression, and at length, seemingly unconscious of what she did, she pressed the likeness to her lips.
“What is that, Hesper?” said her mother, who had entered unheard, and stood close behind her.
Hesper turned and blushed, but the next moment she threw her arms around her mother’s neck, and laid her head on her bosom.
“O mother!” she said, “I am glad you have come, for I am almost bewildered, and need you to think for me. There is one who is trying to steal your daughter’s heart from you, and perhaps you have come in just the right time to prevent it.”
“That, I am sure I shall not do,” replied her mother, “if it only goes in the right direction, for I have seen enough of my daughter’s heart, to know that it can contain all her affection for me, and a much greater love beside.”
Hesper placed a chair for her mother, and then read the letter aloud. There was a troubled expression to Mrs. Greyson’s face, but she did not allow her daughter to perceive it.
“And now, what shall I do, mother?” said Hesper, as she concluded.
“Let your own heart answer, dear child.”
“But its words are very uncertain. Advise me, dear mother! advise me!” she added, entreatingly.
“Hesper,” said her mother, as she placed her hand beneath her daughter’s chin, and looked her steadily in the eyes, “Do you think you love Harry more than as a brother.”
“I—I think I could if I tried,” stammered Hesper, with a very honest look.
“You do love him,” said her mother, “and therefore I say—use your love and influence as far as possible for his good, and trust God for the result. I cannot help dreading for you, my dear child, the experience which such association and relationship bring, but it is all for the best; for you would always be a child in heart and mind without it. Go on and take your woman’s lot as it comes, for there is a good God above, who ordereth all things well.”
“Mother! mother!” said Hesper, in a faltering tone, as she crept close to the bosom of her sympathising parent, “I am afraid of life and what lies before me, and wish I could die now. I cannot bear to think of going away from you and father, to live with one who may be unkind and neglectful towards me. I will write to Harry and tell him that I love him very much, but I fear that I can never marry him.”
“That is childish,” said her mother, “and you will know that it is, when you have had a wider experience. No, my dear child; take the cup of life just as God mingles it, thanking Him not only for the sweet but also for the bitter. Joy and sorrow is the common lot of all below, and those who drink most willing of the draught as it comes, are best prepared for a higher and holier life above.”