THE
RECALL.
nothing. To this unintelligible prattle I listened
bewildered. I began to doubt my own sanity.
But I knew that Margaret had no brother: I
knew that 'William Devon was her paternal uncle.
Out of patience w ith the senseless babble of the
woman, 1 began to ply her with questions. At
last it was all made clear. Margaret’s father
and grandfather had both borne the name of
Gilbert, and her aunt as well as herself that of
Margaret. It was the aunt who had been the
wife of James Chase.
“Whom then had Margaret married?” was the next inquiry. “She never married,” was the answer. The lover of her girlhood had been faithless, and had long ceased to be regretted.
Oh, what a dullard was I, never to have conceived that two might own the name of Margaret Devon! Remounting my horse, I went slowly back to my lodgings, musing on what might have been.
The next day was Sunday, and I once more bent my steps to the church, where I had seen the gentle child whose memory so clung to me.
The building was unchanged. There were the square pews, the high pulpit with its tasseled cushion, and the sounding-board swinging fearfully above it; the fringed desks; the oak-cased organ, surmounted by crown and mitre; the natural tablets. But what a change in the worshipers! Every seat was filled, and by people of every type. Here were the fair hair and carnation-tinted cheek of New England; and there the dark, pale face of the sunnier South.
The grey-haired rector was gone, and his place was filled by a comparatively youthful figure, with the brow of a Persian. His sonorous voice and clear enunciation were very effective in the liturgy, but could not drown the trampling of horses and rattling of carriages outside, during the sermon. On coming out, a close line of vehicles stretched along Spring street; and another on Church street intersected it at right angles, unwittingly making the sign of the cross with equipages and footmen.
Missing my cane, I went back for it, and to avoid the throng, stepped from the walk and stood among the graves. I plucked a daisy beside the tomb where Margaret had stood, and when the crowd had issued forth, returned into the church with it in my hand. My seat had been near the chancel, and as I now drew near, two ladies, who had lingered, stood looking at the gilded tables of the law. In a tone full of sad music, one of them observed, “I remember the first time I ever entered these walls. It was when I was brought to be baptized.” Her face was averted, but I felt that it was Margaret Devon. She went on to detail the incidents of that hour; her heedlessness; her danger, and her being saved by an unknown youth; her giving him her flowers, and his promise to keep the daisy. She added playfully, “I sometimes wonder if he really retained it, and if I ever shall see him again. I mean to pick another from the same spot and keep it until I find its fellow.”
She turned to go, as she spoke, and came full upon me, standing with the daisy in my hand.
I was no longer a youth, and the child Margaret was now a stately woman. The grey hairs that had crept among the chesnut on my temples ought, perhaps, to have brought more wisdom with them; but I was impelled onward. Holding out to her the freshly gathered flower, I said, “Will you not take this? I have kept the other twenty years.” Surprised, confounded, she took it, and with hastily murmured thanks passed out of the church.
I went home in a whirl of undefinable emotion. It was in vain that I called myself an old fool; and conjectured whether Margaret laughed at my sentimentality, or was indignant at my impudence. So I went to her to learn the truth. Neither anger nor contempt were seen in those deep eyes; but maidenly consciousness and grateful kindliness. I found her more beautiful than even in childhood, and in every womanly excellence beyond my highest imaginings.
Why lengthen out my story? I wooed, I won; and the little Margaret has become indeed my DAY's EYE.
THE RECALL. BY
P. H.
QTAUFFEK.
Come back! Come back to me again!
As if those angry words had not been said!
The tears of bitterness that I have shed
Would wash away a sin of twice its stain.
Come back! Come back to me again,
I place my hands upon my aching head—
I wish that I were with the dead,
To know no more of wretchedness and pain!
Come back! Come back to me again!
I offer for those cruel words I said
The free devotion of a life instead!
How happy now! I have not plead in vain.
