My Son's Wife

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Chapter I

T seems but yesterday the girl, for whose sake I write the following pages, was a wee bairn. But, despite the seeming, that time dates back to long ago; and now the child is a young woman, and she asks me, her old grandmother, for a wedding gift !

The gift she asks is the story of her mother's early years. At first I inclined to refuse the request, but on second thought I decided to grant it. For " seeing the threads of Providence have many a time ^ a semblance of ravelling," it occurs to me

:o that it may help my granddaughter, and

5 other young creatures like her, if I trace out

3 one here and one there of the threads that

ca were inwrought into the pattern of her

mother's life, that thus they may see "how v/ell woven the web was into which the Almighty Hand had run them."

I will find this task less difficult because i.

during her girlhood, and the early years of her married life, my son's wife, Bona, kept a diary, and through it I have discovered many things. Nevertheless, as I begin the narrative I realize of all the women I have ever known, and they have been many, for the years of my life will soon number the allotted threescore and ten, my son's wife would be the one most apt to declaie that there was nothing in her seemingly uneventful history worth recording, for ** the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history." I do not, however, share this opinion, for it is not the circumstances of our lives that are of value, but the character that is formed by them. And to my way of thinking there was never a sweeter, more helpful life than Bona's, nor one richer in useful hints for those who have come, as her daughter has, to the place

** Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet."

This is the place, too, from whence, according to the language of metaphor, in all true, earnest lives, the onward path begins to lead "up hill all the way." Yes, we must climb, if we would reach at last the blessed summit of the Mount of Transfiguration. And what matters it if the path is now and then narrow and rough if it leads there I What matters the steep ascent if, like my son's wife, we sing as we climb :

" Yet a little while, Yet a little way, Saints shall reap, and rest, and smile.

All the day Up ! let's trudge another mile.'

But I must not linger to moralize. That is something Bona never does. She is one of those who lives rather than talks her religion, and the great power of her influence is its genuineness. She is all through what she seems. When I saw Bona for the first time she was a child, and then came a stretch of years during which we did not meet, and then my son Edward brought her to Greenville as his bride, and again I was straightway impressed by her simplicity and integrity of character. From the hour of arrival I began to love her, and to regard her not merely as my son's wife, but as my dear daughter Bona.

Recalling tb^ ?arly glimpse I had of her in childhood I remember a fair-haired, laughing little maiden, with cheeks red as roses, and eyes — well, I never saw the like of them, such sweet, honest brown eyes. When they were cast down her face had a grave, thoughtful look, but when she lifted them it was like the shining of stars in the sky. Indeed, then and all through her life Bona's eyes have been her chief claim to beauty. In color, as I said, they are brown, and shaded by the longest lashes I have ever seen. But it is in their expression the wonderful charm exists. It is that one observes, rather than beauty of color or shape. And this is as it should be, for as Victor Hugo writes : " There is one thing which bears more resemblance to our true selves than our face, and that is our expression; and there is yet another thing which resembles us more than this, and that is our smile." And Bona's smile is simply Bona, and her soul speaks through it.

It is not only her personal appearance I remember when I saw her in childhood ; I recollect, also, how she played all the long, sunny morning, and how as she played she sang for very joy like the birds, just as she does now in later life, and then, a$ now, every one who loves her is the happier for her song. But despite all Bona's mirth and light-heartedness, before that June day ended I discovered that there was an earnest side to her character. The circumstance which revealed this somehow seems more real to me than many things that occurred last month.

It happened in this way : I was spending a few days with my friend, Ruth Gaylord, and while we middle-aged women sat on the shady balcony and talked of the by-gone days of our youth, the child wandered from the garden into the meadow. When at last we sought her she was sitting on the grass, surrounded by nodding daisies and blossoming clover, pink and white. The air was fragrant with new-mown hay. Out of the happy distance came the silvery sound of swinging scythes, and the echo of merry laughter. Oh, yes, I remember it all so well, even how the bees hummed as they darted in and out of the honey-sweet clover, and how the birds sang as they flew from bough to bough of the fringe of elder-bushes that divided the meadow from the high-road. But little Bona had no thought that hour for bird, bee, nor flower. She

Jlfy Sons Wife was intent on looking at the vapory white clouds floating above the far-away mountain peaks, that lifted their blue heights so close to heaven. " They are angels," the child softly whispered, as she pointed up, and the smile on her sweet face deepened, and her arms reached out as though to grasp the white-winged clouds.

No one refuted little Bona's assertion. Ruth Gaylord, my friend, who strove to fill the place of a mother to the motherless darling, was not a woman who inclined to tell a child that clouds heralded storms. On the contrary, she was one of those who recognized that clouds, whether viewed by the eye of the soul or of the mind, are to God's children always messengers. For it is written, " He doth set His bow in the cloud." And in the darkest hour of trial the ear of faith hears words of comfort from Him who dwells in the cloud, and veils merciful purposes with His thick clouds. This is why

'* From grief comes glory As the rainbow from the cloud."

i

Chapter II

BONA'S diary contains but brief reference to her childhood, and the few details I record regarding it are culled from letters written by Ruth Gaylord, to whose care she was entrusted by her father when she was little more than five years old.

This friend of mine, Ruth Gaylord, was a most earnest-minded woman. She felt no small degree of awe and reverence for little people who were still strangers to this world of sorrow and sin. Hence as was to be expected, her heart was deeply stirred at the thought of training a child who had but just taken her first look on life. The child herself, meanwhile, was like a traveller who sets forth in the dewy freshness of morning with no forecasting of what may await her before the close of the day, or the end of the journey.

But this is not what I sat down to write ; this is the place for extracts from the package of time-stained letters open before me»

The first is dated on the very day of little

Bona's arrival at Miss Ruth's home in N .

It begins :

" I expect my little charge this afternoon. Everything is ready for her, even to the tiny chest of drawers in which I kept my own childish treasures. Her little bed, with its white hangings, downy pillows, and snowy coverlet, looks like a nest ready for a bird. The child's name is Bona Dunbar. She was born five years ago on Easter Sunday. God grant the old tradition may prove true in her case, and that thus she may be blessed with the happy heart the Lord is said to give Sunday children. But this seems doubtful, for Bona was bereaved of her mother when she was but two years old, and I have often observed that * a child's life, where a mother's love is wanting, is like a day with a cloud over the sun.

Later on in the same letter my friend tells :

" Bona has come. Already I feel a vast amount of love and tenderness for the darling. She is a most engaging child, and she seems to know by instinct that she can trust me, and Hannah, my maid. She felt

lo quite at home before she had been with us an hour. As I sat on the balcony after dinner, it was pleasant to hear her little feet pattering about the garden walks, and the sound of her voice and merry laughter were like the chime of joy-bells set a-ringing in that usually quiet place. When the dew began to fall I called her in, and it being her first night in this new home I went upstairs with her when bed-time came rather than sending Hannah. After she was undressed, without waiting for a suggestion, she came and knelt by my side and clasped her little hands, while with bowed head and closed eyes, in a soft, low voice she offered her evening prayer. It was a tender sight, that little white-robed, kneeling figure. I thought of the spirit within her that would never die ; and I resolved then and there that this child the Lord had sent to me should be dear to me as my own kin. When her prayer ended, I lifted her in my arms and carried her to the little bed which Hannah had set up in the alcove of my own room. Before she nestled her head down into the soft pillow she sat up quite straight, and, taking my hand, she drew my face down toward hers and put her cheek against

II

K mine in the sweetest, most loving way, as in a half-whisper she asked : ' Are you a mamma ?'

" For a moment I hardly knew how to reply, and then I said : * No, dear child, but I love you very dearly, and I will be as a mother to you, with God's help.' Even as I spoke she fell asleep, and in her sleep she smiled, and truly I believe she will continue to smile all night long, and she will awake smiling, I am sure. For, unless I am greatly mistaken, this little Bona Dunbar is like the dear children of whom we read, that our Lord, when on earth, took them in His arms and blessed them, and said : ' Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' "

Chapter III

I WOULD fain continue these extracts, it is so pleasant to tell of a happy childhood. And however uneventful the period there is always freshness and variety in the story, for children are like flowers, one never finds two alike. Nevertheless, I must not tarry over Bona's early history, and I decide to pass by silently much of interest that I find recorded in those old letters. But in spite of my resolve I must insert the following extract which portrays Bona soon after she entered on her school-days :

"The child is an apt scholar," Ruth Gaylord writes, " and she brings home weekly reports which are most gratifying. And the best part of it is, she takes pains to rank thus high, for, while she seems to learn as easily as a bird sings, it is not done without effort. She understands, too, the reasons for this effort are that she may use the powers of mind that God has given her, so that they may grow stronger just as her body grows stronger by plenty of exercise,

'3 and that she may acquire the knowledge she will need when a woman.

** Naturally her bright mind is never weary asking questions, and half the time she finds her own answers. Young as she is, she has discovered that faith and knowledge are very different things. She is deeply impressed also with the truth that the Lord Christ is the God of Love, and that the love which He brought into the world is the love which He commands us to feel for each other ; and that selfishness is the root of evil. As is so often the Lord's way in dealing with His children, Bona's acceptance of this truth has led her into perplexity. Yesterday she came to me greatly troubled by the difficulty of obeying this command to love every one. The truth is, she finds it hard to feel any affection for a school-mate, a proud, overbearing girl. I could only counsel her to avoid the feeling of dislike, and to remember that if after repeated effort she found she could not love her companion, she could at least try to find something to respect in the girl's character, for, as I told her, some one good and trustw^orthy trait could be found in well-nigh every one.

H

" Bona seems young to grasp my meaning, but I had good proof later on that she understood. She was sitting on a Iqw stool at my feet when we had the talk on this subject. As I spoke, she drooped her head upon her hand, her elbow rested on my knee, and she sat awhile without uttering a word ; at last she looked up at me with an earnest light shining in her dark eyes, as she asked : ' Do you ever do wrong. Miss Ruth ? Do you ever find it hard to love people ? '

" With much seriousness I answered : * Yes, indeed, Bona, it is my sorrow that I do.* At these words she looked at me for a moment as though half-frightened, and then her head drooped again. I did not wonder at the half-feared look, it is always so difficult for children to understand that an older person, whom they love and trust, can do wrong.

" Presently she raised her lovely face, and with her elbows still planted on my knee, she gazed long and earnestly into my eyes with a wistful expression, which with all my trying I think only a mother could have fully understood. When she spoke it was to say softly : ' When you do wrong does God love you?* And as the wistful look deepened she added, still more softly : * When I do wrong does He love me ? *

" * Yes, Bona,' I replied, * God loves you dearly and always/

" * Are you quite sure ? ' the gentle voice pleaded.

" ' Quite sure,' I said, * for the Bible tells me so ; it tells, too, that it pleases God to have us feel sure of His love, and of His forgiveness of our sins, when we are sorry for them, and ask His pardon for Christ's sake.'

" But my words did not quite satisfy Bona, the wistful look was not yet gone ; the glorious truth had not yet found complete entrance into her young heart. When at length she grasped it, her thoughtfulness increased, and as though speaking to herself she said : ' He is sorry when I do wrong ; He is pleased when I ask to be forgiven ; He will help me to do right, if I do my part, and try to overcome evil by good. Oh, it is beautiful ! * And she laid her head on my lap while the long lashes half hid her shining eyes. After a silent time she sprang up suddenly, and her face was radiant, and her voice joyous as that of a

i6 lark, as she exclaimed : * Oh, I am so glad, and I will try to be good, I will try to love every one.'

"A minute later her feet were scampering over the lawn to the meadow, from which she returned, just before the tea-bell rang, with her hands full of buttercups, daisies, goldthread, and blue and white violets. And she came home as she went, singing : *I am so glad, so glad.* "

This early gladness, which, as Ruth Gaylord wrote, blossomed out of the child's recognition of God's love, and her own desire to serve and please Him, never died out of Bona's soul. In all the after years of her life, even in the midst of trial, her sorrowing has always been linked with rejoicing. She never forgets that

** God*s in His heaven, All's right with the world."

Chapter IV

THE fact that Bona kept no full record of her childhood was not due to any lack of affection. Indeed there was never a more loyal, loving heart than hers. Soon after her marriage I learned this. She had been reading aloud to me a story of a mother's devotion.

When it ended she sat for many minutes without speaking, looking out of the wide-open window toward the river and the distant hills. She was wont to be thoughtful, but the sadness in her expression was unusual ; observing it, I laid aside my work and crossed the room, put my arms around her and drew her head down on to my shoulder, and as I kissed her, I asked gently: " Dear child, do you remember your mother?"

She did not reply for some time. She seemed trying to recall some shadowy recollection too elusive to grasp. By and by she shook her head, as she said: "Some-

i8 times I think I remember, but when I try to define a form, a person, the memory vanishes, and then I know it is not an individuality, but the sense of a love, a tenderness, a great beautiful care over me, like a protective wing, that I call mother," and again Bona was silent.

And yet, although apparently absorbed in thought, she caught the first sound of Edward's approaching footsteps. O yes! You may be sure she heard that. " It is singular the personality there is in a footstep, and steps vary as much as the human face." As Bona lifted her head she dashed away some tear-drops from her eyes, but she smiled in her own bright, winsome way, as she kissed my cheek and said: ** Do not feel sorry; you know dear Miss Ruth interpreted mother-love for me, and now," she added softly, " I have it in reality, you are so good, so kind, so dear." Without waiting for my reply she exclaimed, "My husband is coming," and a still brighter smile was reflected from this knowledge, as she sped swiftly from the parlor to the front door to meet him. But amid all her joy at Edward's return — he had been absent since early morning — she did not forget to turn, as she left the room, to throw me a light kiss over her shoulder.

But I am running far in advance of my story. It is of the years that preceded Bona's marriage I must tell, before I pass on to the happy time when she became my son's wife, and the joy and heart of his home. Returning then to the broken thread of my narrative, I record that Bona was little more than sixteen yeat-s old when Ruth Gaylord died. That was a solemn spring and sad summer to Bona. She loved Miss Ruth dearly, but even in the darkest hour of her sorrow she was singularly unselfish, and she found comfort in the knowledge that it was only for herself she had to lament : for Miss Ruth all was well. Bona also strove to remember Miss Ruth's counsel, and she tried to think of the blessings with which God's love encompassed her, rather than dwelling on the happiness He had taken away.

According to Ruth Gaylord's wish Bona was sent to a boarding-school in the neighborhood of M , where she remained until

she was eighteen. She was then transferred to the care of her mother's only brother, a professor in a New England college. By way of parenthesis, I mention just here that Bona's father had married a wealthy widow lady soon after the child went to Ruth Gaylord, and that he lived almost entirely abroad, seldom visiting his native land more than once during half a dozen years. Thus, except for a liberal allowance, Bona, so far as personal knowledge of her father was concerned, might have been an orphan. Neither had she ever seen anything of her uncle and his wife; and the life that awaited her in their home was an entirely new page in her experience. But she felt no dread of the future. She interpreted it by the past, and save for the sorrow caused by Ruth Gaylord's death, that past had consisted of happy, peaceful years.

It so happened, just before Bona's arrival at her uncle's, my son Edward, who had recently graduated from the theological seminary, had been invited to supply for six months the pulpit of the college chapel. The very first time the young people met they were mutually attracted. And, almost before Edward realized why, his steps inclined to tread the same path day after day, and that path led toward Professor Smith's house.

Meanwhile as time went on, more than one in Edward's congregation observed that the young minister was getting into a habit of looking down into the pew occupied by Professor Smith, his wife and niece. They also observed that Bona Dunbar, instead of looking straight up to the preacher, as had been her habit the first few Sundays after

she came to H , had suddenly taken to

sitting with her eyes cast down and her head somewhat bowed. In view of these circumstances there was little surprise expressed when Edward and Bona*s engagement was announced and speedily followed by their marriage, which was greatly to the contentment of all concerned.

But again I am running in advance of my story, and without delay I turn to Bona's diary, where I find recorded her introduction to my son, and her first impression of him. I find also brief notes regarding the progress of their acquaintance which soon glided into the friendship that is the sure foundation of a love like theirs. But I will let Bona tell her own love story in the extracts I copy.

Chapter V

A MAIDEN'S thoughts are pure and holy, like a white flower, when they up-spring in a heart sweet and innocent as Bona's. Hence I take a fresh, unsullied page, as I begin the notes I promised to pass on from her diary.

Under the date November i, 187 — , just six months before her wedding-day, I find recorded: " We dined yesterday at Professor R/s,and there I met the young minister Aunt Annie so greatly admires. He has awakened an unusual interest in my mind. Somehow from the moment I heard his voice and saw his face, I felt a desire to talk with him of the things I care for most. Aunt Annie asked me this morning if I thought him handsome. No, it is not exactly handsome I think him, it is something beyond and better than that, and it is this something that I cannot describe by words ; it is the intangible beauty that God gives to those who love and serve Him, whether they be man or woman.

"In figure Mr. Morgan is tall, and of a commanding presence, even now in his youth. His complexion is fair; he has a firm mouth, and deep-set, thoughtful, calm blue eyes, that glance from below his brow with an earnest expression that sinks into my heart."

A month later : " I have known Edward Morgan hardly longer than a rounded month, and yet I feel as though always we had been dear and trusted companions. When I meet him I am so glad, it seems as though all the bells in the town were ringing out a peal of joy. I had such a beautiful talk with him yesterday. I told him of a dream I had a few nights ago, and looking up at him I asked: *What are dreams?* Before he had time to reply, I added: ' In some respects they certainly are like the scenes of life in another world, and thus like spiritual life. Are we then to look upon spiritual life as dreamy and unreal?*"

" He answered so decidedly, * No, indeed, dreams are unlike spiritualities in the most important respect. " All power of self-determination is suspended and absent in dreams. Things go on and we go with them, at their own will. We do not interfere with them by our personal will at all. Just the opposite of this is spiritual life. There the personality and the power of self determination is distinct and positive, and our activity is subject to our own conscious control.*' *

" But I cannot write all Edward Morgan said, and yet I must not omit, even if it does take time, his explanation of Jacob's dream, * the ladder set up on earth, and the top of it reached to heaven.* He said the ladder meant * the Word.* Nevertheless he thought Jacob only saw it in a dream, while we are permitted to see it with our waking reason, and thus it becomes * a type resting on a foundation solid as earth, and ascending by steps built of the very substance of truth.' And then he reminded me that * angels mean messengers,' and that the angels ascending and descending are emblems of good influences that come down to us along its rounds, and arise with us if we will only go up with them.

" I am so sorry Aunt Annie interrupted Edward Morgan*s sermonette, as she playfully calls his serious talks. But for all auntie's fun-making I do dearly enjoy talking with him about the subjects I hold most sacred. To-night, as we were coming home from the Wednesday evening lecture, I asked him to define religion. I can never forget the earnestness of his voice as he replied: * Religion, why, it is but to know, to worship, and to love God, and from a true love to God springs all love of goodness, and, therefore, all happiness.' "

Chapter VI

AS a sequel to the glimpse afforded by Bona's diary of her feelings toward my son, during the first weeks of their acquaintance, it is but fitting to refer to his early impressions of her. I heard from him frequently that winter, and in every letter he mentioned the dear girl. At first he merely wrote of her as a blithe, joyous young creature, and yet uncommonly thoughtful. Then came more of detail, until at length, after telling of an evening spent at her uncle's, he asked : " Does not beauty of person, as well as of character, confer a benefit upon us by the simple fact of being beautiful ? '*

I replied by the question : " Is Miss Bona Dunbar a beauty ? "

My son's answer came in due time. He wrote: "I hardly know how to picture her. She is less striking in feature and figure than many of the young ladies I constantly meet in society. But she has an expression of quicker sensibility, and a winsome, lovable manner that all the women I know lack, save yourself, dear mother. This is why her uncle and aunt use terms of endearment v/hen they speak to her, and why they call her little. For she is not little; indeed in stature she is rather above than below the average height, and she is plump and in perfect health, with a complexion of the finest texture, exquisitely soft and smooth. And yet, while she is so fair and blooming, she is not a blonde who will fade early. Best of all, she has a bright spirit and a guileless heart that admits neither fear nor suspicion of evil. A glance into her clear, truthful brown eyes tells this. It tells too that she has a soul ready *to meet life's everydayness with a smile, and high thoughts for little duties, and it is in the fulfillment of simple routine that we all need, more than anywhere, the quickening influence of the highest thoughts.'

" There is just a spark of impatience in her temper, and enough self-will to accentuate her individuality, but I repeat, always she has a sunshiny way, and she looks up at one with the sweetest expression I ever beheld. Surely, such a clear, bright look can only come from a heart where noble and good aims rule, and gentle, kindly affections abide. Nevertheless, according to the established code of beauty, no one would describe Bona Dunbar in stronger terms than pretty. Yes, very pretty, and sweet and fresh as a wild rose or a blue violet.