Sarah Bolton - A Country Idyl and Other Stories

After Edith left me, taking her little girl by the hand, I confess I was desolate, overwhelmingly desolate. Why is it that one person can make night seem day to us; can bring perfect rest and content? I should not have cared if years could have passed while we sat there together. She will go away soon, and I shall have to fight the old battle with self over again, and conquer, and go back to daily duties.

Come and see me here at this lovely outlook. I will show you her child’s picture – so like the mother. What will the end be? I suppose you ask. The same as now, probably. I do not look for anything different. I try to be happy and thankful that I live in the same world and now and then in the same city with Edith.

Dear Ernest: You and I are growing older, but we have kept the same true friendship through all the years. Your life has been full of love and sunshine, and mine so desolate, except for one ennobling affection.

But a great change has come into my life. Edith has come back with her daughter, and both are in mourning. They have been here for months, but I have seen little of them.

A few evenings ago I sat with them among the trees surrounding their lovely home, and as I left I dared to tell Edith that I had not buried all hope for the future. She looked at me gravely, I thought with an appealing expression in her blue eyes, as though she longed for a place where her heart might rest. You know how the eyes can speak volumes. I had never seen her look thus before. Every woman loves to be worshipped. “She must at least be gratified that I love her,” I said to myself.

I have been to see Edith this evening at sunset. She and I have walked in the ravines, and I have pushed away the underbrush from her lovely head, and told her that I longed to care for her always, and she has laid her white hand on my arm and said, “I love you.”

I scarcely know what I am writing. To have her and her child in my home forever! To have the peace and satisfaction and rest of a reciprocal affection! To have her mine to kiss and be proud of, and to live for! To gather golden-rod and carnations for her as when she was a girl! To see the curling smoke of ships on the blue lake, and the golden sunsets, and the rich autumn coloring together, and to know that we shall live side by side till death parts us, and then shall rest together under the same myrtles and red berries of the mountain ash in the cemetery!

Life has begun anew. I seem almost a boy again, while Edith is sweet and grave and happy. I sometimes half fear that it is a dream, it is all so beautiful. The world never seemed half so attractive as now. Come and see us in our home.

THE SNOW was falling on Christmas eve in the little village of West Beverly. A good many young people were disappointed as they watched the feathery crystals come floating down from a sky that seemed full of snowbanks. They wished to go to a party, or concert, or home gathering, and who could tell whether Christmas would be stormy and disagreeable?

Widow Wadsworth sat in her plain home with her four children, whose faces were pressed against the window pane, guessing what the coming day would bring. Not presents, no; the Wadsworths were too poor for those. But if the day were sunny the sleigh bells would ring, and the poor could slide and make merry as well as the rich.

Hugh, a bright boy of sixteen, had finished his education. By hard work his mother had helped him through the High School, and now he was ready to do his part in the world’s work. Not that he did not long for college. Other boys had gone out from West Beverly across the hills to Amherst and to Harvard, but they had fathers to assist them, or kind friends who had furnished the money. Hugh must now aid in the support of his two sisters and little brother.

He had earned something by working Saturdays, so that when Christmas morning dawned Kate Wadsworth found some plaid for a new dress outside her door, Jenny a doll, and Willie a sled.

Mrs. Wadsworth’s eyes filled with tears as she kissed Hugh. “It will all come right in the end,” she said. “I wish you could go to college, but many a man succeeds without it, and educates himself. It is blessed that we are alive and well, and are able to work. There is as much room in the world for my children as for anybody’s. You have been a noble son, and we all love you. I wanted to buy you something, but the money had to go for rent.”

“Oh, never mind, mother! I don’t need anything. I’m going over to Mr. Carter’s to see if they want the snow shovelled from their walks. Tell Willie to come over with his new sled and see me work.” And Hugh’s big blue eyes brightened as he stepped out into the frosty air. Blessed hope of youth, that carries us into the realities of middle life stronger and happier for the burdens that must be borne!

The Carter mansion away on the hills belonged to the Hon. William Carter, owner of the woollen mills. A man of kind heart, good to his employees, he had always felt an interest in Hugh because the father had worked in his mills. This Christmas morning the Carters wished several walks cleared. The hired man could have done it, but Mr. Carter preferred that Hugh should have the work.

The owner of the woollen mills watched the boy from the window as he shovelled. “A very promising lad,” he said to his wife, a little lady much younger than himself. “I wonder what he intends to do in the world,” and putting his hands in his pockets he walked up and down the floor. “Jerome Wadsworth was a good workman in the mills. I guess the widow has had a hard time of it since he died.”

Mr. Carter walked towards the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes were being removed from the table.

“Margaret, when the boy has finished clearing the walks, send him to me.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the maid.

An hour later, his cheeks aglow from labor, Hugh stood in the doorway.

“Come in, Hugh, and sit down. What are you going to do?”

“I am ready for any honest work, Mr. Carter. I wanted to go to college, but that is out of the question.”

“How much would it cost you?”

“From five to six hundred dollars a year, I suppose.”

“Would your mother like to have you go?”

“Very much indeed. She has always wanted it, but I think she really needs my wages now to help her.”

“But you can help her better after you have an education. You could earn more, and you would be an honor to her.”

“Yes, I know of nothing that would make her so happy.”

“Well, my son is young yet, and something may happen which will prevent my sending James to college, so I will send you while I can.”

Hugh’s blue eyes grew moist. He was indeed to have a Christmas present: a four years’ course at college.

“I will come over and talk with your mother about it,” said Mr. Carter.

Hugh hurried home, and entered the cottage quite out of breath. Calling his mother aside, he whispered, “Mother, I have a secret to tell you. Mr. Carter is going to send me to college, and then I can better help you and the rest. Just think of it – to have it happen on Christmas Day! And I never expected it.”

Mrs. Wadsworth could not speak as she folded her boy in her arms and kissed him. What did it matter to her self-sacrificing heart whether she worked early and late, if Hugh could only be educated! True, he would no longer share her humble cottage, and she would miss his help and companionship, but her life was nothing – his was all. If anything in humanity touches divinity, it is motherhood, that loves and sacrifices without hope of reward.

Busy days followed, when the little trunk was packed, prayers offered, the good-bys said, and her boy Hugh went out into the world.