The season of sunshine and roses had come, and Carry's demands for her friend's society were importunate.
"You would not fret your dear heart with harrowing doubts of my love for you and Poplar-grove, if you could peep in upon me this morning," wrote Ida. "Mr. Read is worse. I am unfamiliar with the diagnosis of this malady; but I fear his condition is very precarious. He is entirely disabled; cannot lift his hand to his mouth without extreme pain, and his nervous system is much deranged. I write now at the window farthest distant from his bed, and cautiously, that the scratching of my pen may not disturb him. I can see your hands and eyes go up, and hear the 'this is too much!' which signals the last throe of expiring patience as you picture me a nun-like figure, with serge gown and close cap; or more affecting, an attenuated damsel, such as we see upon tomb-stones, pressing a handkerchief to one eye; I imagine your multitudinous arguments, each unanswerable in its excellence, and which I know by heart. You allege that he is not entitled to my cares, inasmuch as there are no ties of blood between us; that he has never done me an ungrudged favor; that he is greedy and thankless for my services; that his wife and daughter should esteem it their duty and pleasure to tend him; and fifthly and lastly, that it is wrong to endanger my health, as your whimsical country doctors will have it I am doing. Putting the last first,—reassure yourself my dear—I amwell. I do not prevaricate to allay your fears; I look well, eat well, and sleep well, and I may dismiss the remainder of your objections in one sentence—I am doing my duty, Carry! I am morally certain of this, more certain, than if you were my charge; for my love would be the mainspring of action then. I am upheld by the assurance, that I am fulfilling, in my humble way, the command, our Saviour appointed as the touchstone of piety to the end of time—'Do good to them that hate you, pray for them thatdespitefully use you.' I thank Him that He has vouchsafed to me this opportunity to examine myself by this criterion."
The sufferer moaned, and she laid down her pen. "You have had a refreshing sleep, have you not, sir?"
"No! there is no ease for me. Why is that window open? It does seem that you all have conspired that I shall die, whether or no. Where is Helen?"
"She was here awhile ago, and will be in again soon."
"Is she in the house?"
"I do not know, sir. Let me get what you want."
"I wanther!"
She was not at home, and Ida renewed her offer.
"Gone out, hey!" he rambled on, peevishly. "How she walks! as if the ground were not good enough for her feet! ogling and coquetting! and I amhere!" with an oath. "Where is Josephine?"
"Down stairs, sir."
"What issheabout?"
"Anna Talbot is with her."
"More folly and vanity! ringlets and ribbons, and bonnets and beaux! The world is peopled with knaves and fools—women are knaves—men fools. You are a mixture."
Ida suppressed a smile. "Your lips are dry," she said "here is water."
He drank it. "You are!" he went on, obstinately, "I hated you from the minute you entered this house, and you repaid me with compound interest. Here you are, sitting up at night; waiting on me all day. I can't do without you, because you are handy and wakeful, but I don't like you. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Idon't! and therefore, I'm a fool to tolerate the sight of you. I'm a fool—that'sproved! You are spoiling your eyes and complexion, and losing the time you might be catching a husband—mewed up here. You expect to be paid when my will is read—that's knavery—hypocritical knavery. I haven't left you a red cent; you are a fool to think of it, andthat'sproved!"
Pitiful driveller! It was not insensibility, but compassion, that closed Ida's month, although she knew this was the revelationof the inner chamber of thought, now that the veil of custom and policy was rent in twain.
"What time is it?"
"Twelve o'clock, sir."
"That's a lie! it's three, at least! Bring the witch to me. It has stopped! Hold it to my ear—you've put it back! Lay it down by me! I don't trust you again!"
The hands pointed to one when Mrs. Read appeared.
"Well, madam!" the form of each tooth was seen through the thin lips, stretched over them like yellow parchment. "And where have you been traipsing?"
"I walked down the street."
"And on Main street, too, I'll swear! spending more money than you'd sell for at auction! Why don't you answer me? Your tongue was more glib when you were passing compliments with that fellow who walked with you."
"I went out alone, and did not go on Main street."
"You would have been better employed in the kitchen—forever gadding! I don't want you in here—I'm sick of you and your brazen face!"
"What error to suppose that sickness softens, and predisposes the heart to repentance!" thought Ida. She went into the other room, and beckoned Mrs. Read. "The doctor was here this morning," she said; "and told me, privately, not to mind his irritability, nor to answer him, unless silence increased it. It is an ordinary symptom in neuralgic affections. We must be forbearing."
"There is a limit to everything," was Mrs. Read's response.
"True—but forbearance should last as long as the pain we would cure."
"That is your theory, Miss Ida. I am tired of the practice. You mean well, I have no doubt, but I am not a fit object for your charity."
The asperity was pointed at herself, rather than at her hearer, and Ida pondered upon her words and manner, often during the day.
"It did not agree with" Josephine "to sit up"—a constitutional weakness, loudly lamented, and encouraged, instead of overcome. Ida and Mrs. Read divided the vigil; the mulattonurse, Sarah, sleeping in the apartment. Ida was to watch the latter part of the night. The patient was cross and restless, when she looked in upon him at bed-time—railing, and swearing and abusive.
"You want me dead!" he said to his wife; "but I won't die—to spite you. I shall live years, and years, and years, 'till you are a toothless hag, and walk with a crutch! Ha! ha!"
"He is delirious!" whispered Ida. "Let me stay with you!"
"He isnot! I prefer your retiring. Sarah will call you at two."
"I shall not undress, to-night, Rachel," said Ida. "I have a presentiment I shall be wanted."
"Is he much worse?"
"No—but I may be called up. I shall sleep here, upon the lounge."
But sleep was coy to her wooing. If she had ever felt fear, she would have known that she was scared and excited. The south wind generally affected her unpleasantly, creating heat and nervousness; but to-night the breeze was from the north, and the moonbeams were spread in broad, white sheets upon the floor. "I must be sick!" she said, aloud. "I cannot ascribe this numb horror to anything else. They have a superstition that it is a precursor of death." Her mind rejected this explanation, but the utterance of that word had populated her soul with phantoms. Lynn's chill, damp hands again enfolded hers; and his glazed, upward look—still and fixed, moved not at her weeping; the clods rattled upon the coffin—frozen clods! and how warmly soever the sun smiled upon the swelling turf—down where he slept, it was frosty night still! Must he, the loved and gifted, rest there forever? would a tender mother's arms never more embrace her,—the dear lips, now turned to dust, never cling to hers, in speechless fondness? But the dead should rise! some to the resurrection of the just, some to everlasting shame and contempt. Oh! the unspeakable woe of a hopeless death! the dying strife of the finally impenitent! Washisend approaching? "My God! avert from him this doom!" His room was beneath hers. She could hear occasionally a groan, which she knew was an execration. He might be dying. She thrust her feet into a pair of felted slippers, and descended to his door. "Quiet—quietas death!" "This is improper! irrational!" said she, severely, to herself. "I need repose and steadiness of nerve—there are watchers with him." But she would not go back to her room. She went, instead, to the parlor. The hall-lamp burned all night; and setting open a door, and unclosing a shutter, to dissipate the darkness, which suffocated her, as a thick pall, she stretched herself upon a sofa. She slumbered and dreamed—visions, like her waking fancies. She was in Mr. Read's chamber; writing to Carry, at her far window;—the door swung back, and his wife glided in. With a gesture of silence to her, she passed to his bedside, and poised a knife above his heart! Ida strove to scream—to move—but her mighty efforts only shifted the scene—did not awaken her. He was dead; and his friends had come to the funeral. They thronged the room where his corpse lay in its costly coffin; and the carriages, headed by the hearse, grated upon the pebbled gutter. The undertaker was tightening the silver screws—when, oh! horror! the lid was heaved up from within—crashing and splintering—and the dead sat upright! The distorted features were Mr. Ashlin's,—the yell, as he tossed his arms aloft,—Mr. Read's. "I will not die!" She was in the centre of the apartment; the cold beads dripping from her forehead, and her hair, dank and heavy, upon her face and neck. She put it back, and listened. The silence drove by her in waves—throbbed with the beatings of her heart. Hark! it was not all a dream! the pawing of hoofs rang upon the stones. The moon had set; and the lamp was brighter than the starlight. She had the presence of mind to creep to that side of the window hidden by the shutter, and looked out. A carriage was at the door—in appearance like the doctor's. He had been summoned—the sick man was worse. Something light and white sailed past her window, from overhead; as it fluttered to the ground, a tall figure stepped from the vehicle, and caught it to his bosom. The apparition of the Arch-Fiend himself would not have shaken Ida, as did that manly form. She was awake! A stealing step fell, softly as a snow-flake, upon the floor above—she heard it. With the speed of light, she flew to the front door—locked it—to that at the other extremity of the passage—hid both keys beneath the cushion of the hall-sofa, and backagain to the street entrance, as Mrs. Read, dressed for travelling, had her foot upon the lowest stair. The fugitive leaned against the wall for support, faint with the terrors of detected guilt.
"Back!" said Ida—her cheek bloodless—her eyes flashing living fire. "False to your word! false to your sex! I will save you from public disgrace! Back! I say!"
"Not while I live!" was the answer.
"And you cross this threshold over my body!" cried the girl, passionately. "Oh! shame! shame! you—the pride and idol of your family and your husband! that you should break their hearts and disgrace his name!"
"It is not my name after I leave this—I shall forget and be forgotten. Let me go!"
"Forget! forgotten! you may! a false woman can forget the mother who reared her! but the stain upon them! your tears, norhisblood can cleanse it!"
"You are mad!" said Mrs. Read, regaining her composure. "You cannot stop me. My home is in another land. Why do you talk of disgrace? the brutal dotard I fly from, will unfasten my legal fetters, and then I shalllive! the life for which my Creator destined me!"
"Youspeak your Creator's name! trampling upon His laws—His curse hanging over you! Oh! I entreat you, by a mother's prayers—for the sake of your old father, tottering upon the verge of the grave—in the name of your honorable and loving brother, not to expose your design! You shall not—you cannot go; the doors are locked—-call for assistance from those who are without, and I will alarm the household. To-morrow your name will be trumpeted at the corner of every street. Ha! that cry! they have discovered all! Too late! too late! but no!—" She tore off the cloak and bonnet, and threw them into a corner, as Sarah rushed down the steps.
"Mistress! Miss Ida! for the Lord's sake, come! Master is dying!"
A cry from Josephine pierced their ears. Ida forgot her companion, but she reached the chamber with her. Writhing, convulsed, screaming, he was wrestling with the Destroyer; the disease had grappled his heart. Mrs. Read sank upon her knees, as blasted by a thunderbolt; Josephine shrieked in helplessdismay; Ida was wrought up to too high a pitch, to think of self.
"Where is John?" she cried. "Here! run for Dr. Ballard! Mr. Read isveryill! Call for Mr. Talbot as you come back. Fly!"
He was down stairs while she was speaking. "Why, Miss Ida, the key is not here!"
She ran for it, unlocked the door, and pushed him out. A man stood in the shade of the porch, whom John did not perceive, in his rapid egress; but he seized Ida's hand, as she would have shut him out.
"Helen!"
"Mrs. Read'shusbandis dying, Mr. Ashlin!"
"Good heavens!"
The bolt had shot into its place, ere he could say more.
All the accompaniments of the last agony, of which Ida had ever heard, read or conceived, were realized in this struggle;—the blackening features, drenched with sweat, the starting eye, the twitching muscles, the death-rattle,—the soul was tearing through the clay receptacle: yet for two hours the awful conflict was protracted.
Morning! a sheet covered the rigid, motionless limbs and countenance, telling in death, of suffering; and there were solemn stoppings and stifled whispers through the house; and crape waved from the door, where the traitorous friend had waited, at night, for the dead man's wife.
Mrs. Read was borne to her chamber in hysteric convulsions, and continued raving and swooning all day—attacking, in tigress fury, every one who approached her, excepting Ida. Her she would not suffer to quit her sight. Holding her hands in a frantic grasp, she poured forth such tales as made her heart ache: of warm Spring evenings, when the air was laden with sweet-briar scent, and the young moon was swimming in the pale blue sky, and the star of love shone upon them—an eye of light—from the blushing west, and he sung to her—poetry ascending from his heart as perfume from the flowers—songs, upon whose memory she lived, in the winter of his absence. "But"—and the deep wells of her eyes were black with anguish, "her heart died, and dissolution came notto the body—would that it had! and the thought of the past was a yawning abyss, like the abode of the lost, from which arose hot, poisonous simooms and tormenting spirits. The world brought incense and gaudy offerings, and friends their best treasures, but it closed not—and she resolved, by self-immolation, to shut the chasm; by an irrevocable sacrifice, to seal it forever. The effort was idle—she sold soul and body for nought. He came, and turned her face to the Future. His heart had wavered, but returned to its allegiance. She was his, by an earlier, holier tie than her loathed tyrant's;—away in the sunny land of their youthful dreams, they would live, unmolested by memory or care. She clung to duty, until her husband drove her from him with a curse; to a brother's love,—and he painted that brother's hatred of him, and threatened to see her no more;—and by the specious names of "soul-dictates," and the "religion which enjoins truth, and condemns hypocrisy," gained her promise. The hand of the Almighty interfered!
Ida shut up her tears, and reasoned and plead with her; praying inwardly for her comfort, and that her own mind and nerves might not fail her. She rested the maniac's head upon her breast—bathed the beating temples, and pressed her cool lips to the parched ones, working with pain—beseeching her, with every endearing epithet, to rest and forget. But the lava crust was heaving; and the long-repressed flood spread over it in fast, soothing streams. The June twilight was on the earth—as she had described those of years agone; and in calming tones, she bade Ida "sing."
"What shall I sing?"
"Of love and faith and hope."
The exhausted girl rallied her strength, and the sweetest of written hymns seemed whispered to her spirit.
"'Oh! Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,How dark this world would be,If pierced by sins and sorrows here,We could not fly to Thee!'The friends, who in our sunshine live.When winter comes, are flown;And he, who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone.'But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part—Breathes sweetness out of woe.'When joy no longer soothes or cheers,And e'en the hope that threwA moment's sparkle o'er our tears,Is dimmed and vanished too;—Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,Did not thy wing of love,Come, brightly waiting through the gloom,Our peace-branch from above!Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,With more than rapture's ray,As darkness shows us worlds of lightWe never saw by day.'"
"'Oh! Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,How dark this world would be,If pierced by sins and sorrows here,We could not fly to Thee!'The friends, who in our sunshine live.When winter comes, are flown;And he, who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone.'But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part—Breathes sweetness out of woe.'When joy no longer soothes or cheers,And e'en the hope that threwA moment's sparkle o'er our tears,Is dimmed and vanished too;—Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,Did not thy wing of love,Come, brightly waiting through the gloom,Our peace-branch from above!Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,With more than rapture's ray,As darkness shows us worlds of lightWe never saw by day.'"
"'Oh! Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,How dark this world would be,If pierced by sins and sorrows here,We could not fly to Thee!
'The friends, who in our sunshine live.When winter comes, are flown;And he, who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone.
'But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part—Breathes sweetness out of woe.
'When joy no longer soothes or cheers,And e'en the hope that threwA moment's sparkle o'er our tears,Is dimmed and vanished too;—
Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,Did not thy wing of love,Come, brightly waiting through the gloom,Our peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,With more than rapture's ray,As darkness shows us worlds of lightWe never saw by day.'"
The head weighed upon her arm, she did not withdraw it Scarcely breathing herself, she listened to the regular respiration, that said the distempered brain was locked in forgetfulness. One—two—three hours—and a cold lifelessness succeeded to the smart and aching suspended circulation had first produced, a torpor, creeping to her shoulder—affecting her whole body; but she would not terminate that blessed slumber. A fleet step ascended the stairs,—it did not belong to any of the household, yet was not strange. A knock—which she could not answer—the bolt was cautiously drawn.
"Helen!" said her brother's voice.
The "hush-sh-sh!" silenced him, but he entered. The moon revealed the dark and white forms upon the bed.
"Your sister sleeps!" said Ida, under her breath. "I beg you to retire—she must not see you. Oh! go!" for she was awaking.
"Ida!" said Mrs. Read; "what am I doing here? Oh! mercy! I remember!"
"Peace! peace!" and with gentle violence, Ida forced her back to the pillow. "You are safe and well now."
She was still for a minute. "Whom were you speaking to when I awoke?"
"Some one opened the door, and I did not wish you disturbed."
"It was a servant, then? I dreamed Richard had come. Oh! if he should!"
"Do you want us to send for him?"
"Never!"
"But the fatigue of travelling rapidly over so great a distance will be too much for your parents. Some of your friends ought to be with you."
"But not Richard! any one else!"
Ida was perplexed. He would insist upon seeing her, as soon as he heard that she was awake;—they must meet in the morning, and the shock then might unfit her to endure the trials of the day; yet to tell her now, appeared cruel and unnecessary.
"You have not eaten to-day—you will take some nourishment if I bring it?"
"Don't leave me!"
"Only for a little while. Promise me to be good and quiet, until I can run down stairs and back."
"Only do not stay—I am afraid to be alone."
Richard was pacing the hall with a troubled air. "How is she?" he asked.
"More composed."
"May I go up?"
"It pains me to deny you, but she can see no one, at present."
"This is extraordinary, Miss Ida. We know that there is not ground for this excessive grief, and Helen has not miss-ish nerves. What ails her?"
His frown commanded her to reply, explicitly.
"You do not reflect how sudden Mr. Read's death was, Mr. Copeland. It was an alarming event to us all. After awhile, your sister will receive you. She does not know that you are here;—her mind has wandered all day; and I deemed it safest not to agitate her. Trust me to do all in my power for her and you."
"I do!"
Mrs. Read remained comparatively tranquil, saying little, except to supplicate Ida not to leave her.
"You are better—are you not?" inquired the latter, stroking her brow.
"Yes—easier, and more quiet."
"I find your brother has been sent for;" she pursued.
"He has come!" ejaculated Mrs. Read. "Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?"
"It is unavoidable;—you must meet—why delay it?"
"Oh! he will kill him! he said he would, if he ever spoke to me again!"
More perplexity! Ida staggered under it. Her ingenuousness pointed to the straightest, as the best road. The guilty mind would never be unburdened without confession; but there was solid rock, underlying the foamy flow of Richard's character. When his distrust of Ashlin did not amount to a denned conviction, he had said, that he "dared not see him"—and she recalled his meaning,—"If he crosses my path again!" The dilemma was fearful—a life of concealment to one, murder to the other. Mrs. Read's consternation redoubled on perceiving hers. "What shall I do? oh! if I could die!" she moaned, tossing from side to side. Ida spoke in accents of command—representing the unhappiness she would experience in her intercourse with her deceived brother; the watchfulness, and subterfuges, and the misery of accepting a love she had forfeited; and on the other hand, the remorse of the murderess; the blood of another soul clogging hers; the public ignominy—but this was barely touched upon.
"Yet sin unconfessed to man, is not always unrepented of to God;" said she.
"Can you resign this base-hearted man, and devote your life to an endeavor to repair—you cannot of yourself, expiate your offences against your Maker and your fellow creatures?" And the haughty, hardened woman bent before the simple majesty of truth and feeling, and solemnly vowed herself ready for her work.
Richard was to take his sister home; and Ida was busily assisting her to pack her trunks, the day after the funeral, when Josephine sent to request an audience. She ordered the servants out of the room as she came in, and without preamble, entered upon her subject.
"You two have been confederates in many amusing schemes. Wedded spirits at sight, you flattered yourselves that you counterfeited indifference successfully. But not to me—my fair intriguers! You, Miss Ross, were wilfully imprudent. I foiled your manoeuvres to entrap Morton Lacy, the man you loved;—you owe the disappointment, from which you will never recover, to me. You were unwary to oppose me a second time. And for you—lovely and inconsolable widow! your downfall was decreed from the moment we met. I poisoned that old man's mind against you. He weakly tried to repel doubt—to confide—the fool! in your love—but the venom was subtle—certain!Ioverheard your first interview with your recreant lover—marked, step by step, your reconciliation, and furthered it when I could:—Isaw your trepidation when your brother's arrival menaced anexposé; and compelled John afterwards to a confession of the warning he transmitted, and the reply, 'on account of a friend's danger!' That 'friend' is in imminent danger now! The cessation of his visits did not mislead her, who dogged you in your walks, and saw him by your side.Iwas awake the elopement night,—saw your signal, and heard the theatrical dialogue in the hall, rehearsed for the benefit of eaves-droppers, to clear the skirts of your accomplice, when your flight should be discovered. Pah! a child could see through it! a remarkable coincidence that Miss Ross should select a parlor for a dormitory, and arouse, just in season to confront you at the door! It was a scene,—as the play-bills have it—'for one night only.' Your plan proved abortive; death has left you as free as a divorce would have done; and when the 'days of mourning are ended,' you think to marry, and the public be inblissful ignorance that this measure was in contemplation before your husband's decease. Idiot! is this the revenge I have worked for? Your swain is yet in town;—act out your plot. You need not go to Cuba—the laws of Virginia do not forbid the bans. If, however, your saint-like confidante reprobates 'indecent haste,' my game is nevertheless sure. I give you to-day and to-night for deliberation and escape. At the end of twenty-four hours, if you are in this house, your hot-blooded brother shall hear the interesting facts, of which I have presented a summary;—I have spoken, andI never repent!"
Her auditors had not moved hand or foot, since she began to speak; and after she had gone, they gazed at each other in the same dead silence. Mrs. Read's stony despair revived Ida's energies.
"I am lost!" she said, in a hollow tone. She put by the garment she held, and seated herself, with folded arms.
"You are not!"
"She 'never repents!'"
"God grant she may, before it is too late!" said Ida, looking upward; "but I do not rely upon her relentings for your deliverance. We must consider. Bear up, and remember your vow!"
But her own heart sank. Contrivance and expedient presented themselves,—all inadequate to the emergency.
"Are you willing to brave Richard's wrath, if it affects only yourself?" she asked.
"I am! to the shedding ofmyblood. Your face brightens! Is there any hope?"
"Iniquity defeats itself!" said Ida devoutly. "The Helper of the tempted will provide a means of escape. Have we not time, and the knowledge that he is in the city, and liberty to communicate with him? Write him a warning, andfinalfarewell;—he must fly for his life—he will do it! The traitor is seldom brave!" she said inwardly.
Mrs. Read's nerveless fingers dropped the pen.
"I cannot!"
"You must!" said Ida, authoritatively. "His life—your peace, depend upon it. Write! I will dictate."
The note was short and imperative. If the hand quivered, the heart that indited did not.
"Take comfort!" said Ida, sealing it.
"How will you send it?" said Mrs. Read, whom grief and shame had robbed of mind and fortitude.
"I will carry it myself."
"Oh! not you! what will be said?"
"Trust me. If Josephine has emissaries, so have I. I will not compromise myself or you. I was cut out for a conspirator, and to keep up the character, you must disguise me. My appearance on the street so soon after the—yesterday, will excite remark. Ah! this thick veil, and that black mantle, will serve my purpose. Now, would you know me?"
"Never—but dear Ida—"
But repeating "Take comfort!" Ida kissed her, and went out. She tripped across the back yard, under shelter of the buildings, unlatched the gate, and was safely in an alley, bisecting the square, and parallel with the street upon which the house was built. She walked briskly, thinking over her plan. As in Lynn's case, Charley was her aim; but she was not so sure now of his co-operation. It was a delicate and dangerous matter;—would he be a blind tool? confidence was not to be thought of. With his nice notions of propriety, would he take a note from her to Mr. Ashlin, of whose character she had heard him speak disparagingly. "This is foolish!" she interrupted herself—"he must!" and she was conscious that this word from her, carried with it an authority few had the hardihood to resist.
John Dana was in the store, but he did not know her, and sent a clerk forward.
"I wish to see Mr. Dana, sir."
She raised her veil as he responded to the call.
"Ida! my dear child! I should never have recognised you!"
"I did not design you should. My errand is with Charley—is he in?"
"In the counting-room. What is the matter?"
"With me? Nothing, sir;—a state secret. He is my Vizier."
"Very well!" said he, smiling. "Walk this way." He pushed aside the baize door, and Ida thought she should faint, as Richard Copeland was discovered talking with Charley. John also retreated.
"He is not alone;" he said, "I will call him out."
"Not while Mr. Copeland is here!" she faltered. "Oh! I would not have him see me!"
"Ida!"
"He mustnotsee me, Mr. Dana!"
"Then I will hide you—shall I?" He took her to the end of a counter, piled to the ceiling with goods; gave her a tall stool, and bade her "rest awhile."
Ida was ashamed of her perturbation, and heartsick of the feints and concealments her nature revolted at;—all the consequences of another's errors.
Charley and Richard entered the store. "You had better say you will go," said the latter. "It is insufferably stupid;—staying here this weather."
"I don't know whether I can get off;" answered Charley. "We'll see."
His brother directed him to Ida. He was astonished to see her.
"But you can never be unwelcome."
"Cela dépend;" said Ida, "I sue for a favor."
"Consider it granted."
"That will not do. Can you perform my bidding, without asking questions?"
"I am not inquisitive; and I depend upon your discretion."
"Then, will you deliver this letter immediately?"
His countenance changed. Ida lifted her finger.
"I have promised," he replied; "but Ida—if you were my sister, I would not be the bearer of this!"
"Charley!"
"I do not say it to hurt your feelings, but I know men, and this man, better than you do. This is not your handwriting. My fear is that you may be tampered with—not your integrity—but that designing people may impose upon your credulity."
"I thank you sincerely for your consideration, but I act with my eyes open, and conscientiously believe that what I demand is actually necessary.Idictated that note. Will you oblige me now?"
"Unhesitatingly."
"Be sure you give it, at once, to him. I cannot explain,I may never do it, perhaps. One thing more. Where does Mr. Copeland want you to go? and when?"
"To the country, to-morrow; atête-à-têtedrive out of town; a dinner at a tavern; and spend the day in the woods, gunning."
"Go, please! I have a special reason for asking it—and start early."
"More mysteries!"
"The last I shall ever annoy you with, Charley."
"Enough! if possible you shall be obeyed. I trust you, Ida—not one of the other parties concerned. By the way," he added, putting on his hat, "Lacy passed through the city yesterday; stopped but an hour, and left his regrets and respects for you. He would have called, but for the circumstances of the family."
"I should have been happy to see him," said Ida, very naturally. "Was his sister with him? how is her health?"
"Not improved. They contemplate a sea-voyage. I heard a queer report about him the other day." They were at the store-door, and Ida did not lower her veil, although the light was glaring. Charley was scrutinising her from the corners of his eyes, and she was aware of it.
"I don't credit it;" he said. "They say he is engaged to be married to Miss Arnold."
Ida smiled. "Why do you discredit it?"
"Why I hear the girl is a flirt; she is pretty, but I don't relish the match. Besides, to be frank, I had a private opinion that—"
"That he was engaged to me!" finished Ida, laughingly. "Your shrewdness is at fault for once, Charley. I have known of his engagement ever since last summer—almost a year."
"How did you hear of it?"
"From himself."
"All right then, I suppose;" Charley reluctantly conceded "I'll be hanged if I don't believe it's all wrong!" he muttered, as he walked down the street. Ida did not mutter or sigh, on her way home. She cheered Mrs. Read's drooping spirits by reporting their case in excellent hands, and the happy Providence which appeared likely to befall them in Richard's projected jaunt. "A day is as precious to us, at this juncture, as if its minutes were diamonds," said she.
Withdrawing to her chamber, she wept long and sadly. "If I could only have seen him for one hour! one minute! Oh! I shall never be free—never forget! Can I censure poor Helen, when I am myself so weak? for it is sin to love him, the promised husband of another!"
An hour—and she was with her dejected charge, busy and cheerful—yet so thoughtful, so sympathetic, that the repentant wanderer blessed her as a heavenly messenger of compassion and goodness.
Ida was dressing in the morning, when she received a note from Charley.
"Mr. A—— decamped yesterday afternoon, servants and baggage—it is said not to revisit these parts shortly. I do not know whether this much discussed Hegira is, in any way, attributable to your billet, but write, in the supposition, that the fact may not be uninteresting. Mr. C—— and myself are on the point of starting upon our ride;—return to-night.In haste, yours,Charley."
"Mr. A—— decamped yesterday afternoon, servants and baggage—it is said not to revisit these parts shortly. I do not know whether this much discussed Hegira is, in any way, attributable to your billet, but write, in the supposition, that the fact may not be uninteresting. Mr. C—— and myself are on the point of starting upon our ride;—return to-night.
In haste, yours,Charley."
Ida smiled scornfully. "The caitiff! I said the false were seldom brave!"
She sent the note to Mrs. Read. Rachel brought up an answer. "You are my guardian angel," it said. "The God you love and serve, may reward you—I never can. I shall spend this day alone. Richard must hear the truth, and I should be his informant—not that miserable girl, who would gloat upon the sight of his grief and amazement. I shall write him everything. Pray for me!"
Towards evening, Rachel, as the only trustworthy bearer, was dispatched to Richard's hotel with the letter. Mrs. Read had expended her moral courage in the execution of this mortifying duty. She passed a wretched night—a prey to agonizing anticipations—imagining Mr. Ashlin's return; his being overtaken; the death of one or both; Richard's desertion of her, or that her family would disown her. Ida stayed with her, but her condolences and sanguine predictions were futile.
"You do not know Richard!" was Mrs. Read's invariable answer.
He appeared at the hour for departure, and without coming in, sent to inquire if she was ready. Ida supported the half-swooning woman down stairs. Richard was in the porch. He saluted her slightly—his sister, not at all;—his face so gloomy and stern, Ida dared not accost him. Josephine was less timorous, or had a stronger incentive. She walked boldly to the door.
"Mr. Copeland, can you spare me a minute of your valuable time? I have a word to say to you."
He wheeled upon her with a withering sneer. "I am admonished of the purport of your communication, Miss Read, and my regret is only second to yours, that the indulgence of your amiable penchant for bloodshed is inevitably postponed by the flight of our chivalrous friend. I give you credit for having acted in perfect consonance with the finest feelings of your soul. Permit me to express the hope that the consummation we mutually desire, is not very remote—that the "transgressor may be rewarded according to his works;"—and while this is the burden of your prayers, I would have you remember that I shall put up a like petition with regard to yourself!"
Mrs. Read strained Ida to her breast silently, and the hot tears fell fast upon her cheek. She tendered her hand to Josephine. It was disdainfully rejected.
"Farewell, Mr. Copeland;" said Ida, holding out her hand.
He clasped it, and inclined his head, as in adoration. "It is well," he said, in an under tone, "that I have met you. You have preserved me from total abnegation of female truth. Thank heaven that you have but a physical resemblance to your sex!" He closed the carriage-door upon his weeping sister, mounted his horse, bowed to his saddle-bow to the wave of Ida's handkerchief, and galloped off.
Anna Talbot was to stay with Josephine until the necessary legal formalities should leave her free to select a home; and Mrs. Dana claimed Ida. She needed rest and nursing. This week of agitation and wearing fatigue, was the forerunner of a fever, which might have resulted fatally, had she retained her old quarters. There was nothing at Mr. Dana's to quicken memory into action upon unpleasant subjects; no darkened chambers, or everburning tapers; no hurryings from room to room, with the suppressed bustle, that indicated a renewal ofthe patient's sufferings. These were sights and sounds painfully familiar to her of late. She lay in an airy apartment; the light tempered, not excluded; with books and flowers, and if she wished, the happy children to amuse her; and when she started from sleep, with a groan or shriek sounding through her head, her eye fell upon the placid face of her hostess, smiling tenderly to dispel her alarms; or Elle's cherry mouth said, in the flute-like accents, so like her aunt's, "You're just dreaming, cousin Ida!" She left her bed, but her tottering steps would not bear her far; and John Dana carried her in his strong arms every evening to the parlor, where was Charley, disposing, with the skill of an accomplished nurse, the pillows that heaped her sofa. She was thankful for the debility that made her the recipient of these tokens of true affection. They loved her; she no more doubted this, than she questioned her attachment to them. One day she appeared thoughtful, and Mrs. Dana remarked upon it in private to her coadjutors. She was afraid it arose from some saddening reminiscence, or mistrust of the future; "Charley must enliven her." And Charley, if he did not bring mirth, eliminated the caged troubler.
She "had heard," she said, "that the law required her to choose a guardian."
"True;" said Charley.
"Is there any specified time? has it expired?"
"A month hence will do; although Miss Read has made her choice."
"Ah! whom?"
"Mr. Talbot, the elder. Easy soul! he has not a thought of the pickle he is in."
Ida was more serious. "Will you say the same of my selected protector."
"Probably—you being afac-simileof her."
"May I choose whom I please?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Will it be a very troublesome office?"
"Hum-m-m! I should say not. Some care—some responsibility—that is a mere song, though, as your schooling is done, and you are a moderately discreet young lady."
"Will you ask your brother to act? I prefer him above all other men in the universe."
"Why not do it yourself? he will not object."
"He might be influenced by my anxiety, and assume the task because it will make me happy—I want him to make an unprejudiced decision."
"I will look him up;" said Charley.
They re-entered together; and John bowed his tall form to kiss the flushing cheek. "You will not seem more like a daughter, when you are my ward, than you do now, Ida."
It was chinquapen season; and a grove of "bushes" on the outskirts of the Poplar-grove plantation resounded with the jocund voices of a nutting party. The green beards rolled back their white lips, in a smile, saving as plainly as smile could say, for the shining brown treasure—"Come and take us!" As a loaded upper limb was roughly shaken, and screams of laughter and pretended fright arose from the group, upon whose heads the hurtling shower descended, our friend Charley might be seen, sauntering away, in suspicious unconcern;—Ellen Morris was weaving her gay-coloured meshes around Mr. Euston's susceptible heart, and Mary Truman, with Charley, as aid, was pioneer to a dozen children of assorted sizes. One couple had strayed to the edge of the grove, where, from the brow of a hill, they overlooked a wide expanse of landscape. The lady, whose bloom was heightened by exercise, or some other cause, was profoundly occupied in sifting chinquapens—taken, a handful at a time, from her basket—into the same again. Her cavalier was speaking low and impressively.
"You cannot argue indifference from my delay. I was ready for this declaration a year ago; but you were not; and while I left you in no doubt as to my intentions, I wished you to have ample time and opportunity for making up your mind. I have not the vanity to hope to allure by personal attractions or showy qualities; but if the disinterested love of a manly heart can win your regard, I may trust that my offering will not be scorned. I visited you last winter, and saw that you were not happily situated. A more hasty lover would have spoken then:—I would not have your discontent with one home, influence your decision in my offer of another—would not have you self-deceived; for your happiness is dearer to me than mine. But now, you are translated to a sphere, in which you are appreciated and beloved, your will is untrammelled by the restrictions of a stern guardian—free to move, without the goad of desire to escape a disagreeable lot. I have been very patient, Miss Ida."
He had—and she knew nothing of him but what was generous and honourable. His persevering attachment was guaranty of its depth. Pleasant as her life was now, the death of her guardian, or his widower-hood—(she thought of such chances, in these days of death and change—) would cast her out upon the world—alone and homeless as before. She had all the woman's longing to be paramount in one heart,—the sun and attraction of a home. She could give her suitor but a sisterly regard, at present; but she had been told that this culminated in a calm affection, lasting through life—mighty in death. The passionate idolatry of earlier days was conquered by religion;—she believed that it had subsided into friendship;—its hopelessness impelled her to forget it—how more effectually than in another love? Her colour fled, as it ever did, before powerful emotion, and the fingers, while they went on, burying themselves in the glossy brown heap, were icy cold. She must reply—she looked up—not in the intelligent face—handsome in its pure fervor of devotion—but beyond—to where the blue sweep of the hills lay, graceful and light, against the rosy horizon; and she gazed, until her dark eyes were dilated and moveless, and her companion, struck by their expression, looked to the same spot. He saw but the hills, and the heavens, spanning them in crimson glory—she verily thought, as she stood, rooted to the earth, in the dumb agony of memory, and recoiling at the fate, her tongue had almost sealed,—that she beheld—as if the folds of that glowing canopy were drawn aside—the form and features of her first—what she knew now, was to be her only love!—that looking back, from whatever height in life, she should see the remembered lineaments distinct, unaltered, stamped upon that part of the Past he had made radiant.
"Ida! do you never mean to marry?" inquired Charley, that night.
"You gentleman say every girl will as soon as she has a good offer;" was the rejoinder.
"Germaine is not an 'eligible' then?"
"Who said anything about him?"
"I did. I am unable, by any system of ratiocination with which I am acquainted, to establish why a sensible, fancy-freelady should refuse a man, who is unexceptionable in morals, behaviour, education, appearance and prospects."
"What an array of recommendations! what evidence have you that I have committed this egregious folly?"
"Your quibblings—if nothing else. Deign to enlighten me as to motive—the act being granted. Why did you discard him?"
"Because I did not love him, Charley."
"That is to the point! now—why didn't you love him?"
"Because I could not."
"Not so good. Why couldn't you?"
"Impertinent! is love made to order? As with a soda fount, have you but to twist a screw in the heart, and it bubbles up for any 'unexceptionable,' who prays for it in a flowery speech?"
"Jumping the question again! What is your ideal husband like?"
"He must be my master!" said Ida. "Mr. Germaine is kind and excellent—intelligent and gentlemanly; but my will would never yield to his. He would say—'Shall I?' and 'will you?' in matters where his interests, no less than mine, were involved. My ideal says, gently, but decidedly—'Ithink'—'Iwill?'"
"So our friend may ascribe his ill-success to his lack of Blue-Beardishness! Oh, woman! thy name is caprice!"
Ida had scanty faith in the reality of his wonder, but most of that expressed was genuine. "Such a fine young man! well-to-do in the world, and she so unprotected!" Carry had built many castles in the air, upon Ida's presupposed acceptance of her neighbor, and expostulated with her.
"Better a lonely, than a miserable life, dear Carry;" was the reply. "I have my Bible to direct me,—my Heavenly Father to lean upon. While I obey Him, He will not leave me friendless. As to the obloquy of old-maidism, I do not dread it."
At the fall of the leaf, the town Danas returned home, and Ida slipped into her place in the family, as though she had always constituted a part of it. The time winged happily and uneventfully along until Christmas. Dr. Carleton, Arthur and Carry were with them then, and another visitor, Ida's namesake, and the miraculous prodigy of Poplar-grove;—a lovely babe, four months old; with its father's hazel eyes, and thetransparent skin, and bright flossy curls of its beautiful mother.
On New Year's eve, the older members of both families collected in the parlor, to greet the commencement of the new cycle. Ida occupied an ottoman, between her guardian and Charley; chatting, with girlish vivacity, to the latter. Mrs. Dana was in the opposite corner, in the shadow of the mantel, conversing with her father; but her voice shook at times, and her eyes wandered constantly to her young friend. Ida did not notice this, nor the sadness that tinged her guardian's fatherly look, as he smoothed her chestnut hair for a long time, musingly. She did not suspect he was thinking of her. He smiled, as she threw up her eyes to his face, and rested her head against the arm of his chair; but it was a fleeting light—the uncertain enjoyment of a pleasure, whose loss one anticipates. Finally he spoke.
"Ida! will you give your attention for a minute?"
"For an hour, if you wish it, sir. I am all ear."
"You must be mouth, too—for there are questions for you to answer. Yesterday, in examining certain papers of Mr. Read's, pertaining to the guardianship, I found a packet of letters, mostly from your mother—some from Mr. Grant, and one of yours—written after your illness at Sunnybank. You say therein, that it was your mother's wish for you to take her place, as mistress of the establishment there, so soon, as in his judgment, you should be possessed of the ability; that there were plans laid off, but unfinished by her, whose completion she bequeathed to you;—and you enclose a schedule, which surprised me by the sound sense and foresight displayed in its provisions and items. You conclude by declaring your prepossessions for a country life, and the binding character of the duty, which you conceived was resting upon you. I referred to your mother's letters. It is not for us to censure the dead, but it is amazing how Mr. Read could have slighted the desire, virtually conveyed in every one of them, viz.: that it should be optional with you, at what time after you had attained the age of eighteen, and remained single, you should return to a home, to which, she was assured conscience and affection would alike attract you. She describes your strength of mind and purpose, when a child,as remarkable; and says that she would not fear to entrust to you, the execution of any directions concerning the business she then superintended. My course is too plainly laid down for me to deliberate or waver. In a year, you will be of age; your judgment is as ripe now, as it will be then; you are competent to control yourself, and your subordinates. It is for you to say whether you still consider it obligatory upon you, to anticipate your legal majority."
There was a blank silence. Mrs. Dana alone, was not surprised, and she had most pending upon the verdict. Ida hid her face upon her guardian's arm.
"I would not trouble you needlessly, dear child;" he said, passing his hand over her dark locks; "else I would tell you how dear you were to us, before you lived with us;—how doubly dear you are now. If personal feeling were the arbiter in this case, I would never have made the statement you have heard to-night; and Jenny has not spoken, because foreseeing that her affection might outrun her discretion, I exacted a promise of non-interference. Your home is here, dear Ida, as long as you choose to make us happy by your presence. I repeat—the decision rests with you."
"I do not know what to say. Determine for me, dear Mr. Dana."
"I may not, my child."
"Carry! Charley! what ought I to do?"
Charley shook his head; but Carry was not so prudent. "Oh! Ida! your going will break sister's heart; a year cannot make much difference."
"If it is my duty at all, it is now, as much as then—is it not?" asked Ida, of Charley.
"I am afraid so;" said he, seriously.
"Charley! how can you!" exclaimed Carry. "One would think you were willing to lose her! You are young, Ida—there is no necessity for burying yourself alive, yet."
"Have a care, Carry! John is right—shemust decide;" cautioned Arthur.
"One question, Ida," said Charley, kindly. "You have revolved this issue often in your mind, even since you have been with us—have you not?"
"Yes."
"You said, a year ago, you felt bound to fulfil your mother's wishes, and that your inclinations leaned the same way—how is it now? There is the case in a nut-shell."
"One hard to crack, nevertheless;" said Ida, with glistening eyes. "I love Sunnybank, and I have had misgivings that the indulgence I meet here, may spoil me for the active, self-denying life I must lead;—for I have always looked forward to a residence there, some time or other;—but I am so happy here. Still, Mr. Dana, I have a vast deal of surplus energy which ought to be employed. I am not working with all my might. Does this sound ungrateful?"
"Not a bit of it!" struck in Charley's assuring tones. "It is not that you love Caesar less, but Rome more."
"But it is so far!" objected Carry,—"and so out-of-the-way. Suppose you fall sick! O, brother John! it is heartless to send her off by herself!"
"She shall not go by herself, Carry. If she concludes to leave us, it must not be before Spring; then Jenny and I will go with her. If she is convinced, upon trial, that she is inadequate to the enterprise, or dislikes it, we shall be too glad to have her back. Grant is a respectable man, and an intelligent farmer; and she must secure a companion. You mentioned his sister-in-law, I think, Ida?"
"As to the distance," said Charley, "If those snail-like fellows continue the railroad, as they say they will—it will pass within six miles of Sunnybank."
This was a ray of comfort; yet Mrs. Dana burst into tears, and Carry threw her arms around Ida, sobbing bitterly, as she "feared she ought to go."
"Carry! Jenny! you must not!" said Charley. "She has done her duty—and should be encouraged. You are borrowing trouble upon interest. Who can tell what may happen before Spring? An earthquake, or the end of the world may stamp 'Finis' upon sublunary things, and you'll be ashamed of yourselves for having anticipated evil."
He succeeded in calling up a smile, and Carry unintentionally effected a further diversion. "Oh, Ida!" she sighed. "If you had married Mr. Germaine!"
"I am happier as it is, Carry."
"I move a postponement of the subject,sine die;" said Charley. "We must welcome in the year with a song. Come to the piano, Carry. Ida, Arthur—come! we want a quartette."
They learned to speak of the coming separation with composure; but its shadow was upon all hearts, longer and blacker as the time drew nearer. Ida sometimes debated with herself whether she could be called to sever a relationship which had taken such hold of her inmost soul. She was not supine or useless; for the love a Christian's virtues gain, is indirectly leading men to the Saviour; and every day she could animate some drooping spirit, or alleviate some woe, were it only a child's. Yet she was not performing labors commensurate with her talents and energies; she was upon the circumference of the wheel;—Nature designed her for the centre and motive power. There was a satisfaction in having the matter settled. She had not the courage to introduce it herself; but her guardian's straight-forward summing-up and appeal had convinced her, and the rest of his hearers. A scheme, so uncommon, had opposers and despisers in abundance. Some honestly lamented her departure; and many more insinuated at "family disagreements" and "high-spirited young ladies." She was "Quixotic" and "masculine," said others, boldly; and there were benevolent friends who thought it a pity so much eloquence should be wasted and carried faithful reports to the cause of the commotion. Among the busiest in promulgating scandal, was Josephine Read, until she was taught caution by a scathing rebuke from Charley, inflicted publicly, in response to a sneer, not meant for his ears; and of the opposite party, Ellen Morris' unobtrusive grief affected Ida sadly. They seldom spoke of Lynn; but there was a tacit understanding that his memory was the bond of their intimacy. Outwardly, Ellen was the same—only Ida knew that the spontaneity of her gaiety was no more, and that the most brilliant jets were forced up by a pressure, that would have destroyed the spring of most hearts. On the second anniversary of Lynn's death, she came to invite Ida to a walk—showing a bouquet of spring flowers concealed in her veil. Divining their destination, Ida turned their steps, of her own accord, to the cemetery. The spring was forward;so it had been the year he died; but its young blossoms were killed by the frost and snow which should have belonged to winter—and he perished with them! The turf was green; the evergreen rose, creeping over the headstone, was full of glossy leaves and the violets upon his breast were budding. The girls knelt on either side of the grave; trimmed away the dead twigs of the rose, plucked the sere leaves of the violet, and clipped the ragged grass—talking softly, as over a sleeping babe. Besides themselves, there were no visitors in the grounds; and having deposited their offering upon the mound, they sat down. Ellen's arm was encircling Ida's waist, while one of the latter's rested on the grave.
"I may not do that," said Ellen, mournfully. "Although when it rains or snows at night, I weep to think how it beats upon him, and pine to shelter him with my arms,—when I am here—and I come often, Ida—secretly! I see him dead—perhaps murdered by me—and I no more dare embrace that clay, as you are doing, than the murderer would touch the body of his victim, lest it should bleed afresh."
"This is morbid regret, Ellen. I was his sister and confidante. You had nothing to do with his death; if you had never parted, the disease might have assailed him. The blight upon your heart is deadly enough, without increasing it by unmerited self-reproach. Everything is so calm and sweet here, this afternoon, and I have such a consoling surety that he is happy! The spirits of the loved return to earth—are hovering about us—present, although unseen. He may be with us."
'"Do they love there still?'" said Ellen.
"They do—with a love purged from selfishness and doubtings—perfect—pure! Oh! Ellen! the bliss and holiness of Heaven! why do we love this world so well?"
"They are loveless alike to me; I have no hope or rest in either. When he was here, I loved this earth, because he was upon it; its charm has gone—and can I thank, or revere Him who bereaved me?"
"My dear girl! He smites to heal. In my short life, I have studied His providences sufficiently to teach me that it is the wise Physician, as well as the Father, who takes away our hurtful delights, and rives our hearts. He waits now, Ellen,to infuse life—His life, into your fainting soul—to wind these severed cords about His loving heart. This patient, boundless love was our Lynn's dying hope; and you will never be comforted until you accept it."
"It is easy to talk!" said Ellen, fretfully. "You cannot understand a sorrow like mine."
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness, Ellen, and my life has not been all sunshine. There are griefs, piercing and drying up the spirit—never revealed to man."
"I know that. Is not my soul shrouded in sackcloth drinking wormwood and gall—when my body is bedizened in its finest array, and the sparkling wine reflecting the lying bloom, that says I am glad and gay! I envied you your mourning dress as long as you wore it; and when he was named by the hypocrites who fawned upon him in life, I had to seem as unconcerned as they; you had no need to stifle your sighs, for he was your friend. I had denied him as my lover, while we were betrothed; I cannot publish it now. There is but one restraint upon my despair. If, as you say, the spirits of beloved ones are with us, and he is among the blest, he must be grieved,—if they can grieve—that I contemn the Being he loves."
"Ellen! this language is evidence that your chastisement is not wanton injustice. Whether he hears you or not, you grieve and insult your Maker by your mad words, the Saviour, to whom you are indebted for being and comforts and friends—who has loved you from the beginning. You knelt to a creature He had made; He interposed the gate of death, to save you from the fate of the idolater, and you ask to spend your life in bewailing your affliction—in showing your adoration of perishable dust, and reviling your best Friend! Is this your gratitude?"
Ellen did not speak. Ida drew her closer. "My dearest girl!" she said, "I do not reprove you in my own name. I have been as guilty as yourself; and it is in remembrance of the retribution which followed, I warn you—in remembrance of the love that forgave me, and bestowed peace and joy, in place of disquiet and mourning, that I entreat you—come to Jesus!"
"I cannot! your pleadings are water upon a rock. I have been thinking, as you were speaking, whether I cared to go to Heaven—and I painted it, gloriously beautiful, as holy men tellus it is—but without the love, my foolish vanity tempted me to sport with, when it was mine—for which I would imperil my soul now—and the Creator of that heaven, and its angels, and fair sights and music were delightless. Rather misery withhim, than every other joy without. Oh! if he had known how I loved him!"
Her head fell upon the tomb, and the tears rained upon the turf. Ida wept, too—but in pity. Ellen was perverse in her hopeless sorrow—her friend could only commit her to the tender mercy she had besought her to seek.
"If you knew how Our Father loves you both, dear Ellen!" she whispered, but there was no reply.
It was a trial to say farewell to that grave. She had visited it ere the sods joined over it; planted flowers there, and watered them with tears; had sat there at sunset, and watched the "long, bright pomp" he used to love; had learned there lessons of contentment and charity, and active usefulness, "while the day lasted." Next to one other green heap, where the willow shadows were dancing, this was the dearest spot on earth to her. She seemed brought so near to Lynn by the sight of it; and as she had kissed his white brow in death, she pressed her lips to the marble, with a murmur of regretful fondness—"Brother!"