How few, even of the happiest among women, are blest with that love that can fill and satisfy a woman's heart! How many, disappointed and weeping o'er "idols of clay," stretch out the arms of their souls for something they can lean on in safety! How many, solitary at heart in the midst of gayety, turn away to look into themselves for something more satisfying! How many broken and contrite spirits feel that he alone who knows what is in the heart of man, can teach them to bear a wounded spirit!
How full of sympathy for woman is the New Testament! He knew the heart of woman who said, "She is forgiven; for she has loved much."
It must have been a woman who first thought of prayer. Madame de Stael says that a mother with a sick child must have invented prayer; and she is right: a woman would first pray, not for herself, but for the object of her tenderness.
It had been an object much at heart with Mr. Grafton to save a little property for his daughter. He had succeeded in purchasing the small house, and a few acres about it, which was kept in perfect order and good cultivation under the excellent management of Paul.
Edith's unprotected state, being without near relatives, made him desirous that she should have an independent home among his attached but humble parishioners. He knew that she was scarcely less beloved by them than himself. But he looked forward to his place being filled by a stranger; and he was mainly anxious that her comfort should not depend on the bounty, or even the gratitude, of the most disinterested of his flock.
He was able to accomplish his wish, and leave her a small patrimony, abundantly equal to the wants of their frugal establishment; and Edith thanked God, with tears of gratitude, that she was not obliged to separate herself from the graves of both her parents.
The summer and winter that followed her father's death were passed in tranquillity by Edith, watched over and guarded with the most faithful care by her two sable friends. No pastor had yet been chosen in her father's place; and an unacknowledged but cherished hope arose in her mind, that Seymore might one day stand in that sacred place, hallowed in her affections, and now regarded with trembling hope.
Seymore indulged himself with as many short visits to Edith as his circumstances would allow, always struggling as he was with almost insurmountable obstacles, and straining every nerve to attain that goal of his hopes, a position in society that would allow him to claim his bride. The joy that her presence imparted to his whole being, the change that came over him the moment his weary eye caught sight of the steeple that rose above the dear spot of all his dreams, the sunshine that she diffused in the dark places of his mind, prevented Edith from being sensible of the change, the painful change, that a constant struggle with the coarse realities of his position had made in his noble nature. She had often, indeed, said, with Jenny Deans, "It is no matter which has the siller, if the other wants it." But Seymore's nature was proud as well as tender.
He possessed, as we have before seen, the temperament of the poet—that pure, rare, and passionate nature so little able to contend with the actual difficulties of life—to whom every-day regular labor is a burden hard to bear. We have seen that his deep religious impressions had made him consecrate all his fine powers to the service of God; and the tenderness of his conscience made him fear that the sacrifice was imperfect. The conflict was ever in his soul. He was unable to satisfy his own aspirations after a spirituality and purity, which is the slow growth of a life of exertion. Despondency so intimately allied to the poetic temperament produced a morbid sensibility, a sort of monomania in his mind, having the effect of those singular mirages seen from the sea-shore, where the most trivial and familiar objects are magnified to temples and altars, and hung, as it were, in the clouds.
We touch with a reverend spirit and trembling hand the mysterious influences of hidden causes, uniting with unhappy external circumstances, to involve those who seem formed to bless and to be blessed in a self-tormenting melancholy. I know not that, under any circumstances, Seymore's would have been a happy spirit. Under the present, his love for Edith seemed the only light that could save him from total shipwreck.