In the mist

Front matter

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I

“ I opened the door of my heart. And behold,

There was music within, and a song.

But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong,

Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned,

I could hear it no more ! ”

N ILES ENDICOTT could not explain to himself how it all happened, much less to another. But the fact was this, that he, Doctor Niles Endicott, the days of whose life had slipped beyond the clinging touch of late-lirlgering youth, that will not let go of the first three decades of a man’s years.— He, — Niles Endicott, who had for so long been content in his bachelor home, with thrifty Mrs. Blinn for housekeeper, suddenly found the once cheerful rooms cheerless ; the once coveted seclusion loneliness; the aforetime satisfying companionship of books and study

unsatisfying ; and, all because of a voice that

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was like music to him, a smile, that was like a sunbeam.

Yet, how could he win that voice to sing in his home, that smile to beam brightness and joy there?

Doctor Endicott, though he was a man wont to well consider the why and how of his desires, and their accomplishment, did not long ponder that question.

No, he straightway found the answer, as thousands have done before him, — for, — somehow, love teaches what knowledge seeks in vain.

Thus only a brief six months after Nanette Jay’s arrival in G., in the parish church, the marriage service was read ; the sacred promise to love and cherish uttered in Niles Endicott’s clear ringing tones; the ecjio-promise murmured in Nanette’s low, trembling, bird-like voice, — and, — a minute later, they went out, man and wife; the minister had said, “ What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”

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II

Then began for Niles Endicott a life beautiful as a dream, but alas ! as brief.

Nanette was but a young thing, a mere child in comparison with that middle-aged man, who yet held her lightest word, her slightest deed in honor.

There was nothing too fair, too good for his heart to liken her to ; she was as a flower to him, a song-bird, a sunbeam, and, that she should of her own free will, sing, blossom, and shine for him, was a never-ceasing wonder to Doctor Endicott.

Perhaps, — we can not tell, — if that one golden unshadowed year of wedded joy had widened into a long stretch of years, marked as years must be by the cares and sorrows of life, — perhaps, Niles Endicott might have rudely wakened from his dream to find this child-wife of his, this young creature of the morning, unfit for the wear and tear of mid-

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day. Be this as it may, he was never tried, for as birds cease their songs when morning melts into noon ; as flowers go to sleep at set of sun ; as sunbeams are dimmed by the uprising mists of earth, so their first year of life together had scarce bridged into a second, when there came a day, when Doctor Endicott ; though he loved her so, though she was as dear to him as his life, stood by Nanette’s side powerless to stay the wild fever throbbing through her veins ; powerless to hinder the swift approach of that call, to which no mortal man or woman, try they ever so hard, can say, Nay.

III

It was all over by nightfhll ; strangers and friends passing Doctor Endicott’s door knew the sad truth, that in that dwelling there had been that day, the One, who never goes away alone !

But, neither stranger or friend knew the

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II grief of the man who sat with bowed head through the silent hours of the night by Nanette’s still form, — striving, — so vainly striving, to follow her flight into that unknown land from whose silence his cries could win no answer, whose mystery his thoughts could not solve.

“ Strange is it not ? that of the myriads who Before us pass the door of Darkness through. Not one returns, to tell us of the Road,

Which to discover we must travel too/'

Even Mrs. Blinn, who had been used to the Doctor’s ways for years, never half guessed how the light of life went out for him the day Nanette died, — how for him, the joy ot

“ Its story was all read,

And the giver had turned the last page.”

IV

There was another watch kept in Doctor Endicott’s home that night. — For, —

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as one life, the mother’s had passed from earth to heaven, there had come from heaven to earth, tl\e child’s.

Yes, that day, — the saddest day of all the days of Niles Endicott’s life, vas the birthday of his daughter Elizabeth.

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“OO you have decided, Doctor Endicott, ^ that the child is to be called Elizabeth. A grave name, I must say, for the wee lassie, my little lady-bird.”

And the expression of good-natured Mrs. Blinn’s countenance, as nearly approached a frown as was possible, while across Doctor Endicott’s face played the hint of a smile, as he replied: “Yes, quite decided, Mrs. Blinn ; why do you object to the name Elizabeth, it certainly admits of variations enough, to suit well-nigh every ideal your heart may crave to have personated by the name of the little maiden.”

And having thus settled the matter, Doctor

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Endicott resumed the reading of the morning paper.

But Mrs. Blinn could not so easily leave the question ; in fact, if ever she felt inclined to be vexed with the Doctor, it was then, for the naming of the child had become a sensitive subject to her.

Then, too, all the love and poetry; the tender homely pathos of Mrs. Blinn’s heart, had centered around this motherless child, and no name could have been too beautiful, too high-sounding, to have pleased the seemingly commonplace old housekeeper, whose outward appearance gave no clue to her poem-like aspirations for the child’s future.

Even when she was busy with the daily household duties, the ever-recurring sweeping and dusting, she was dreaming day-dreams of Elizabeth ; dreams as beautiful and numberless as the opening flower-buds of spring.

And now, — to have her desire for a name like melody for sound ; a picture for association ; a poem for song, all set aside by Doctor Endicott’s irrevocable decision : “ The name is Elizabeth.”

. “ What did he mean,” the old woman queried, “ by saying, 1 it admitted of variations ’? Did he suppose she would let the little blossom be called, Lib, Libby, or Liz ? ”

And, as was very apt to be the case with Mrs. Blinn in times of perplexity, no sooner had she accomplished her morning tasks, than she started forth to consult Mrs. Grant, — the minister’s wife, — as to what Doctor Endicott’s words meant.

In reply to Mrs. Blinn’s question :

“ By what now might one shorten, and lighten the name Elizabeth?” Mrs. Grant had suggested a bewildering list of titles, starting with Bess and Bessie, ending with Lizette and Lizzie, and interluded by Lillie and Lisbeth.

The good lady, at the same time, throwing in by way of parenthesis, her idea of the character the different appellations seemed to portray.

And strange to say, Mrs. Blinn, though the l6 IN THE MIST.

child was scarce more than a twelvemonth old, could not fail to see in her some similarity to each of Mrs. Grant’s definitions, till verily she felt half frightened, as to what the little Elizabeth would be in girl and womanhood, if in babyhood she were so complex a creature.

Indeed, Mrs. Blinn went home, saying to herself, “ Who ever would have thought there was so much in a name ! ” — words she repeated many and many a time afterward.

And, just because of that much, spite her sense of dissatisfaction with Doctor Endicott’s decision, as she pondered it, she came to feel a certain importance in it, — she fell, too, as the child’s varying moods suggested, into the way of using now one, and then another of the many titles ; that according to Mrs. Grant, fringed the name Elizabeth, as rose leaves fringe the heart of the rose, — wondering, too, in an undefined way, what gave a flower its name, — its heart, — or its leaves ?

In the case of Elizabeth, there was some-

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1 7 thing very appropriate in all this, for she was verily, a many-sided little creature, of moods as complex, and changes of temper as sudden, as April sunshine and shower.

And, when childhood glided into maidenhood, it was still the same with her ; for one hour, she was a queen Bess, holding imperious queendom over all who came within her sway. The next, the grave Elizabeth, striving in vain to solve “ the mystery of the heart that beats so wild, so deep in us,” .to know whence we come, and where we go.

And then again, she seemed a very lily-bell among maidens, “ so innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” were her winsome ways, or straightway, she was laughing Beth, or coquettish Lisette, of whom none could tell

“ Whether smile or frown be fleetest,

Whether smile or frown be sweetest.”

But oftenest, she was just Lisbeth, — sweet Lisbeth, whom

“ None looked upon but he straightway thought Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, i8

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And into each one’s heart was freshly brought What was to him the sweetest time of year. So was her every look and motion fraught With out-of-door delights and forest lere ; Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of spring than she."

II.

T HE early life of the little Elizabeth was like the flowers, as free and unfettered. In truth, to Doctor Endicott she was a flower, his Lily-bell he called her, his

“ Lily-bud, not opened quite,

That hourly grew more pure and white.”

Called her, with a tenderness in his tone, a smile on his grave face, that made the words ever after dear to Elizabeth, with the sweet echo-charm of a sound that holds thoughts pf childhood.

Her first memory-pictures were all simple, yet they were all touched with the wonders of the world !

Spring, coming after winter, sunshine after rain, — wonders that have pftzzled many a wiser head than hers. — For, who can explain the mystery, — “ Except a corn of wheat fall

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into the ground and die, it abideth alone ; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

Who tan explain it ?

Doctor Endicott was wont to be a silent man among men, but when with the child he had words many and eloquent, and thus, he educated her in the broad “charity which thinketh no evil,” — at least, as much as one can educate another, in that charity, which only the Christ-like heart can truly know.

Elizabeth’s father educated her, too, in the lore of Nature, as unconsciously as a flower opens to the sunshine ; and from babyhood her young heart thrilled with love and tenderness for the song-birds, and the flowers, and the outer world of beauty.

She had only known kindness, thus she was ignorant of fear. — The wildest wind among the tree-tops was a song to her, — storm-clouds only meant rain, to make the flowers grow, and when the storm-banks were the heaviest, she knew if but*one rift broke them, the sunset-glory would be all the brighter for their darkness, — and, — in her childhood she never

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guessed it was all a parable, — a sign in the sky, — but afterward she knew.

She loved the still moonlight too, — loved to run far into the shadows cast by the great trees down by the garden gate, and then out again with a song of joy, — out into the unshadowed moonshine, — and she never guessed that too was a parable !

But best of all, Lisbeth loved the murmur ' of the waves, as they crept up and on the sandy beach of the low-lying shore, down below the cliff, for the sea was like a friend to her, a friend growing dearer with every passing year ; from the time when she first clapped her tiny hands with delight at the sun-kissed wavelets, till the hour when she called the dancing waves fairies. — And on, to after hours, when she had learned the deep significance of their undertone calmness, even amid the wild commotion of the upper waters.

It is said that “ romance is often commoner in real life than the commonplace ; ” certain it is, that those hours of her childhood spent with her father, were tinged with a glow of

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beauty and delight to Elizabeth Endicott, that framed them all the after years of her life, in a halo of no commonplace radiance.

But, she came at last to the awakening hour, for “ children never live very long, when they are not carried away in little coffins and laid in the silent grave, they become transformed, so that we lose them in another way.” And yet, though the child was lost to those who loved her, she herself never could lose the possession of that time, when so true of her were the poet’s words, “ Heaven lies about us in our infancy.” — So true, that not till her summers counted eighteen, did “ shades of the prison-house ” begin to darken ; — and after that, — well ! — she knew many a summer, and many a winter, before she found that other Heaven, the kingdom of God within the heart. — For, it is written, “ The kingdom of God is within you.” — “ The kingdom of God ! Not our kingdom, but His. — There lies the secret,” which only becomes an “ open-secret,” as the heart of childhood, or maturer years, softly

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pleads, “ Lord, with me abide,” only as the heart of faith hears the tender assurance, “ Lo I am with you.”

Eighteen summers ! It was a goodly space of time for Lisbeth to be growing thus :

“ Like the plants, from unseen roots,

In tongue-tied spring.” —

What would she utter when the summer speech came to her — ? When the budding-time opened into the blooming? Would she

“ Bear through sorrow wrong and ruth In her heart the dew of youth,

On her lips the smile of truth ? ” —

Neither the grave man, her father, nor the kindly housekeeper, who loved her so well, could tell ; for let fancy weave as it will futures for our dearest, only to-morrow can tell to-morrow’s story, — and, — whoever caught to-morrow ? —

III.

S OMETHING of the same contradictoriness, that in its many variations Elizabeth Endicott’s name held, pervaded also her home, and the influences that there surrounded her. — A blending of the strictly prosaic with the poetic.

In her home this was manifested in well-nigh every room, for though we no longer set up our household gods in tangible form of sculptured marble, or pictured saint, yet they hold sway as much nowadays as ever they did, and, we every one of us, whether or not we recognize the truth, open glimpses into our hearts and tastes, by our surroundings.

Mute signs of graceful fancies, love of color, beauty of form, and harmony of outline, hinted at, perchance, by mere trifles, yet that indicate what we really are, as surely as the finger on the dial points to the hour.

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So strong was the individuality of Doctor Endicott, in his home the love of literature, as well as of the beautiful and ideal, were everywhere evident ; even though at certain seasons of the year, practical Mrs. Blinn, draped statuette and bronze, pictures and mirrors, in billowy folds of tarletan and netting.

And by such prudent care-taking, spite all her day-dreams for Elizabeth’s future, Mrs. Blinn, in a certain way, assumed the form of the prose of life to the young girl, while the hours spent with her father, were like Idyls for beauty and gladness.

In truth, Mrs. Blinn was a most prosaic enforcer of old-time rules, and the child was early drilled in the mysteries of household duties, as well as in the old-fashioned tasks of hemming and stitching.

Indeed, she was a swift, dexterous little needle-woman, even before she had reached her teens. She had too, from childhood, that instinctive grace of touch, which is the heritage of some women, the power to find and

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bring out beauty from the seemingly unbeautiful.

A rare gift from heaven, and surely as much to be desired as beauty of feature, or grace of person ; and, it always met with favor from the kindly housekeeper, who found it in her heart to smile approval at “ Lisbeth’s ways,” as she called them ; even when she checked her by some commonplace word or comment.

It was an old mansion in which Doctor Endicott lived, the dwelling-place of his father and grandfather before him, and thus essentially a home.

A place made sacred by the benediction of the departed ; — a place where lives, linked by ties of kindred, had for years met and crossed, something, as the angels on Jacob’s ladder, — some going up, — and some coming down.

The house stood in a shady garden, a rod or two back from the central street of the town. One of those old gardens, where gnarled, weather-beaten trees cast shadows heavy and deep, and yet, a garden where there were sunny nooks all flower be-starred.

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When the spring came, the shady places were so thick with violets and snow-drops, the child’s feet trod among them, ankle deep, and in summer, in the sunny nooks, June roses nodded in rosy blush and deep-dyed crimson.

A winding walk from the front door le-d round to the eastern side of the house, where was Doctor Endicott’s office, and opening out of it, the library, with its wide window, that filled almost one side of the room, and framed in the near view of the ocean bay and the cliff, with its narrow path leading down to the shore.

In front of the window grew an ash, its soft and dusky boughs seeming like a mystic veil, as they flitted before the sea-prospect of waves, sparkling blue and crisp in the golden .north wind of summer.

Just above the library was Lisbeth’s own room, with a window wide as the one below. Reaching from it, her little hands could touch the boughs of the ash, and many and many v/ere the songs its leaves, and the sea waves sang to her.

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The broad-cushioned window seat in the library, as well as in her own room, were Lisbeth’s favorite haunts, though every part ol the house was full of cheer to her.

In fact, on entering that old mansion, one felt an indescribable sense of unostentatious luxury. — It was all so comfortable, — the massive old furniture ; the wide-seated chairs ; the warm crimson hangings in parlor, library, and dining-room, gave such a sense of home to everything. There was, too, a pleasant, though mute companionship looking out from the quaint portraits that hung on either side of the wide hall.

In every room there were open fire-places, and so bright Mrs. Blinn had the shining globes of andirons, and the smooth surface of the fenders kept ; they always held miniature pictures of the room.

Pictures, that were like wonderful fairy stories to Lisbeth, who, as a child, used to rub her tiny fingers over the “ shiny places,” — wishing, as children will wish, for the impossible, — that she could rub out the reflection of

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herself ; and the room as it then looked, and see away back into the time when her father was a boy, — or those after days before God called her mother from earth.

But, — no matter how hard she rubbed, the only pictures Lisbeth ever saw, were just of the present, for, — a child has no past.

In winter, hickory logs glowed and sparkled in those broad chimney-places, and in summer, a fragrant odor came from the huge blue china pot-pourri jars, that were placed in between the shining andirons, and back of the fence-like fenders, — and, — somehow, those jars, with their odor of condensed sweetness, were like fairy stories too, to Lisbeth, — for, — were they not full of last year’s roses?

IV.

HILE Lisbeth, as a child, loved every child she met, found a friend in every man and woman, she was yet much alone, as she was later on ; but she never felt it solitude, for her own happy thoughts were her companions, and thoughts that are born out of innocent joys are ever glad.

When she had exhausted Mrs. Blinn’s stock of learning, Masters came to teach her after the prescribed form of education, some successfully, and some unsuccessfully, according as they touched the responsive chord in her heart and mind, which, when rightly stirred, gave forth sweetest strains of harmony; but when jarred, was tuneless.

What she learned, she never conquered by rule, and there were those who blamed Doctor Endicott for this, saying he failed to discipline her young mind.

Mrs. Blinn had many grave thoughts on

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the subject ; no one knew as well as she, that Lisbeth’s temper had never been really tried, her will never really crossed, for, though as a child and young girl, she had now and then slight troubles, they were no more like real trials than an April shower is like a rainy day. And Mrs. Blinn realized this want of early discipline might cause much future sorrow ; yet, she was too partial to confess her fear, when it was hinted at by Mrs. Grant and others. Once she had said something of it to Doctor Endicott, but he straightway replied :

“ The discipline will come in good time, and the self-control too ; my little Lisbeth has plenty of force and character.”

And Mrs. Blinn had no courage to pursue the topic then, or, in fact, ever to resume it. But Doctor Endicott did not forget, and more than once afterward, he said to himself, with a sigh :

“A maiden is a tender thing,

And best by a mother understood,”

And yet, his thoughtful care-taking for

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Lisbeth in well-nigh every respect, was equal to a mothers, — he only failed in striving to make life all happiness to her, rather than preparing her, as a wise mother would have done, for the stern realities, that must in a certain way, as years come and go, take the place of the ideal, for :

" He who has not learned to know.

How false its sparkling bubbles show.

How bitter are the drops of woe,

With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live."

Lisbeth had an intense delight in color, but “ you can no more bind her to method, than you can dictate a bird’s flight,” her paintingmaster was wont to say, as he watched her swift blending of wealth and brilliancy of hue, with delicate tint and shadowy outline.

Music, too, was a joy to her, and yet, the little fingers that so lightly wandered over the ivory keys, bringing out melody, were fitful as fire-flies, dancing away from the prescribed harmony on the page open before her, even when her eyes were resting on it.

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Almost from childhood, she was as familiar with Poets’ songs, as flowers are with sunshine, though it was even then the unwritten poems, lying all about her, that sang the sweetest songs to Lisbeth ; just as later on, it was the unwritten stories, — the short, sad stories, which like sand on the ocean beach, lie so thick about some hearts, some lives, — that told her sadder tales than ever she found on poet’s page. — Those stories that bore the stamp of real life.

Doctor Endicott had a large practice. He loved his profession ; his heart with every passing year had grown more sensitive to suffering, rather than dulled by contact with it, more eager to relieve it, as far as science could ; and, he never refused to go when sent for, though sometimes he was sought by dwellers far beyond the town limits.

It was a rich farming country all about G., — and on the long drives which the Doctor so frequently took, Elizabeth was wont to be his sole companion, and those hours were the gladdest of all her glad hours. It was so 3

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sweet to the loving daughter to be by her fathers side, as they drove through shady lanes, up wooded hills, or by the side of rich pasture or full harvest-fields, — catching now and then, if the road were not too far inland, glimpses of the sparkling, dancing sea-waves.

So sweet, for even when her father was silent, she knew he had not forgotten her, for when she looked up into his face, he always smiled in response, and then, she would nestle her hand into his, or lay it on his knee, with such a wonderful sense of safety and peace. When at last they came to their destination, and the old horse Robin, who could be so fleet of foot, so slow and moderate when there was no haste, was safely fastened to hitching-post or tree, and Doctor Endicott, with a smile, and good-bye, left her, Lisbeth would lean back on the soft cushions of the chaise, and tell herself story after story about the patients her father had gone to visit, — stories that always had a bright ending, for father will make them well, she used to say to herself, with never a thought that there

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might be suffering, which he could not heal ; might be partings, that his skill could not avert.

But, though her fancies were so many, she never asked questions about the people in the rooms behind the closed windows and drawn blinds, though sometimes her father would tell her of a sick child, and then on their next visit, she would beg to take some picturebook, or toy, saying, when she was a little thing : “ Please say, papa, it is from a very well little child to a sick one,” — and, her father did not point out to her the harshness of the contrast held in the words, — but she felt it for herself as she grew older, and then she changed her form of speech, into : “ Say your daughter, who feels so sorry for those who suffer, sends this,” — and, though Lisbeth thus spoke, she was, in truth, as much a stranger to suffering, as she was to the contrast in her childhood’s words. — For, — how can we know that which we have never felt ? — But, — her father did not tell her that either.

V

r | "'HERE is ever such sweetness in the record of a happy childhood, we would fain linger over Elizabeth Endicott’s, but the years, spite their sweetness, sped on, and her story must not tarry behind them.

It is hard to go back and picture the youthful appearance of this maiden of our tale. It is so much more natural to describe her in the aftertime, when life had left its impress on face, and voice, smile and manner, toning down the bright colors of sunrise, into quiet twilight shades, hushing the joy-ringing song into a softer strain. — For there is always the same difference between life in youth, and life when the meridian is crossed, that there is between sunrise and sunset. — The bright hues and glory of the one, gradually melting into the full light of mid-day; the tender rays of the other, be they ever so bright, softening (36)

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and fading at last into darkness, — or, into everlasting morning. — Which ?*— Lisbeth was not called beautiful even in her youth, and yet no one ever looked at her without longing to look again ; she possessed so singularly the something, that words will not tell ; the subtle charm, that made one think of poets’ dreams, and artists’ visions.

In her gladness, she seemed like the Aphrodite of Greek mythology, who rose out of the sea, as the fable runs, and hastened with rosy feet to the land, where grasses and flowers sprang up beneath her light tread.

In her thoughts, she had only caught echoes of the real life that men and women must live, if they would be what God meant them to be. — It was spring-time to her, — and in the spring-time of life, “ hopes, they turn like marigolds to the sunny side.”

In her daily life, she was a sweet and happy thing, the joy of her home, and yet the only picture there is of her then, is of a tall, slender maiden, graceful as a lily-bell, — sweet eyes, rare blue eyes, that looked lovingly on