Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1871-07-21
Gales aud Sketehes.
MY VOCATION, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

1t was not strange that people should
say married him for home / was home
less enough when he took me, God knows
Worn and tired, too, with years of teach
ing 1t had been hard-harder than you
can know. 1t had racked me, body and
mind. 1t had tried me, soul and spirit,
until at last almost hated the sight of the
high brick walls and heavy gate that made
my prison; until at last | almost hated
the faces of the children! All my youth
went there, though l clung to it; all my
beauty--if ever | had any Nothing re-
manned that could charm, unless it was
hair, heavy and dark and soft to the touch.
why do you not leave it? Why do
you not marry ?" friends would question
me. They did not know-how could |
tell them that | loved no one who asked
me. until John came. And then, though
they had urged it upon me, they whisper
ed among themselves that | had married
him for home Perhaps because he was
years older than |. Perhaps-I did not
know. 1t troubled me, and yet what did
it matter, since he knew.
So | left the school. The great gate
changed after me for the last time. and |
could have cried with joy. Then ! went
to be Johns wife, and to take care of little
Bennie; for he had been married before.
AT first | wished it were not so. At first
it gave me Il pang to think of this woman
who had been to him all could ever hope
to bs-perhaps even more. When he ask
ed me to be his wife, in the grave, quiet
way that seemed even then so strong, so
resttul, he told me this. 1t was like him,
the way he spoke of her-the young wife
who had made his home so bright for a
little time, and then had gone away, leav-
ing this little child. 1t was as l would
like to be remembered if anything should
take me now from him. But l was new
in my great possessions then. l was jeal-
oHs of invasion or prior claim. And
cried that night when he left me because
he had said, at has been the one hope of
my life to 60 away and meet her Until |
knew you, Esther, did not think that any
thing but the child could hold me here
| should like to stay awhile now, to bright
en- your life little if l can. But do not
ask you to help me to forget her. Help
ME to be more worthy to meet her."
les it was strange request, perhaps,
and many women would not have taken
the little he had to offer But l would
rather have had that one corner than the
whole heart room of any other man. Still
did cry. When we went home from the
church where we were married, the first
object that met my gaze was her picture.
| knew it must be she, though had never
seen her face. The tears sprang into my
eyes. John saw them. "Esthern he
said and the tone of his voice, like his
face, was troubled and perplexed And
then | sobbed. l, who should have been
happy this one day if never again He
was not impatient with my childishness,
as many men would have been He was
disturbed and hurt only-most of all fol
me.
You will not mind, in time,n he said
gently, "but now-shall it be hung il
Bennie's room P"-''Wait, John, wait
The blood surged in and out my heart. Il
took away my breath. | went away from
him and stood before the picture. 1t was
Il sweet young face, younger than mine,
with that pititul look in the soft blue eyes
that seems often Il premonition of early
death. John had told me about her
How happy and frolicsome us a child she
was But this was one of the saddest
faces l ever knew. Did it cross her mind
| 1T that moment, poor young mother, that
1
and John? There came over me such a
pity for her with the thought, such shame
OF myself, that | caught Bennie in my arms
and made Il great vow with my face hid
den in his curls.
| 1--WE will 90 to her some day, dear
john said, "Bennie and you and l."
and there was never anything move said
about moving the picture.
| | think Bennie did not seem the same to
me after that. My heart had warmed to-
wards him from the first for his fathers
sake; but he was nearer, holier now-the
little child whom God had intrusted to my
care while its mother dwelt with the an
gels. If | could only do by him as she
would have done
1t was such kingdom-that old house
had laid aside my sceptre, but had put
on crown. The street had crowded close
against the door, The world could look
in at the windows. But behind it, shut in
by a crumbling wall, was an old garden,
with crooked paths bordered by box that
reached almost to my waist; with couple
OF mis-shapen apple-trees that had sume-
how outgrown the limits of all apple-trees
until they brooded over the whole place.
They bore glorious promise of blossoms
in early summer, and later scant truition,
specked and sweet to the taste. Over the
wall and clambering upon the houses on
one side, woodbine and dainty clematis
ran wild, and under the shadow of the
same old wall bloomed narcissus and
sweet old fashioned pinks.
And it was mine, all mine my home,
where John and would live, please God,
for long, happy years. Where We would
die. When he had gone away to his work
and Bennie was building wonderful fairy
castles upon the floor, used to walk the
length of the low sunny rooms, repeating
the words to myself. Once, Dolly-my
own maid-came upon me suddenly as |
paced the upper rooms.
"Have you lost anything, ma'am ?"
mo, Dolly, no." said. have found
it." And so had
sewed or read or taught little Bennie
when had arranged the affairs of my
kingdom; sitting in a low chair by thu
window. Sometimes the people hurryins
by glanced in IwOndered If thav tna,.