THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.
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BY D. T. KILBOURN.
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(Concluded from page 75.)
AsArthur approached the city, the sun was sinking behind the snowy clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous light around their fleecy summits, then stretching along the blue horizon, until its brilliant folds, resting upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth, bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one flood of golden light. A fitting robe to herald forth the natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.
As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced by the music of the merry sleigh-bells as they glided past, and the hurrying to and fro of gladsome faces, his heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along, forgetting his fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her little arms fondly clinging about his neck, and her warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how distant seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt to her embrace.
And then came the time when he would come to take her away. And the past year, too, rose before him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be a man, that he might take her to his own home, and be always near her. What cared he if they did laugh, and call him a pooralms-houseboy, if one day he might always have his loved sister near him? That sister who looked so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered if she had grown—and how she looked; and thus his happy heart glowed with fond anticipations of the future.
Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the main building, with a beating heart, he rapped at the door of that part occupied by the children.
A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments Mrs. Williams stood before him. In his joy he sprung to meet her.
“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown! and so altered, I scarcely know you! But who would have thought of you?”
Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister Amy—can’t I see her?”
“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”
“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t, don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and leave me alone!”
Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine; for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit to be in this cold world without a mother.”
Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.
“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to lead him away.
Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me where they have put her?”
“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any other.”
“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”
Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot of their repose.
Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.
Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?”
“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”
“Why did he not take me, too?Iwould be better off in the still grave.”
“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”
“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.
“Because, God will be angry with you.”
“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.
The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the brightbeings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars, to obscure their vision and lure them to earth.
A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.
“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have about as much sense as theirPoodle, on which the entire stock of their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back. But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your sister.”
“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what they say or do to me now.”
“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly upon his shoulder.
Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed, after which, Dick continued. “I suppose, when the old woman broke her word with you, after you had saved the life of her child, she thoughtshehad a particular license to lie! And the old man, too, when he tells me to say that I am selling things ‘under cost,’ while he is getting a good profit on them. So I thought, astheyare goodchurch-goingpeople, there could be no possible harm, in a poordoglike myself, following their example. And when they asked me where you were gone, I would not say what you had told me to, for I thought it better you should get the start of them; so I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell asleep, leaving Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.
Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The full-orbed moon rode above on her chariot of clouds, now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now veiling her face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed forth, they shone through a window upon a bunch of drooping violets.
The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it the child of yore; but oh, how changed! That brow, though still so beautifully fair, had lost the halo of its purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to earth. Love, too, with the bright beings that adore, was bound, but a rosy light played round its fetters, while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing heart. The angel’s face was veiled, but sorrowful supplications still went up to heaven.
The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and looked fearfully around. Awakening his companion, he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have had such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight upon my heart will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr. Buckler any longer—I must go tell him all, or my heart will break.”
“Go, and be kicked away as apoor alms-house boyfor your pains.”
“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any thing, bear any thing, than feel this weight upon my heart. Before this I could feel that my mother and sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong, they are gone, and every thing is so awful!”
“Oh, Arthur, you have had thenightmare, and are frightened.”
“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I was a very small boy, then. But if there were nothing else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler andfeelthat I have deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence in me!”
“Arthur, if youpeach, you know that I shall be sent away in disgrace, and it would break my poor father’s heart—that father who was so kind to you; who took you home and saved you from perishing of cold. ’Twas but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that little was much to you.”
Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued, “Dick, do you never feel unhappy when you have done wrong?”
“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when I first came here; but now that I see that every one’s for himself, and that a man is respected for hiscloth, not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I cannot always banish them when I think of my father and mother.”
“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I know that he will forgive us.”
“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But, Arthur, if you want topeach, you may.”
“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but, if you will only consent.”
“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little of my own!”
“Your own, Dick—how so?”
“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and if right’s right, is it not as much ours as his?”
“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and not for ourselves.”
“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only saw me go to the money-drawer, and said you knew nothing about it. That’s no deception, Arthur.”
“But it is, Dick.”
“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not to be guilty of the like again.”
“But will you likewise promise not to go into that company again? I went with you, because I was so unhappy at home. And you were the son of one who had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after Amy died, I no longer felt a motive for wishing to become a great or a good man; but I feel to-night as if I should have been happier if I had never gone with you.”
Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would not expose him. His parent’s kindness sunk so deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to govern him at will.
Again ’twas evening, and the little flower-spirit, cradled in the pearly folds of a pure snow-drop, looked from its lovely bed. There sat Arthur. Beside him glimmered the midnight lamp; his dark, full eyes were fixed intently upon the pages of a book, on which, spread by the ministers of earth, shone a glittering banquet. Thenameof Love was there—aye, and the counterfeit of its bright plumage, too, which threw a hue of beauty o’er the scene. This, the master of the feast, (to fix its spell on the unwary reader,) had deified as the radiant vision sent from high Heaven. And the bright beings of his soul caught greedily the tempting viands, as the food for which they sighed. But, as the poison mingled through their veins, their pinions flagged—the Passions threw their hateful coils around, binding them closer, tighter still to earth. And yet, upon thattitle-pagethere shone the name of one calledgreaton earth.
And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping guardian, why he was called great! since the sole object for which he had labored, was to subject the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of flesh.
“He is great and god-like in hispowers,” replied the angel. “This, men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love, their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh, when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed incense, wafts it forth, apoisonto the young, confiding soul—a cry of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of eternity.”
The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do you shut yourself up in this confined room,poring over books, while there is so much fun in life! You don’t know how much you’ve lost. There was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s this evening, and the ladies were really quite displeased with me for not bringing you along. Why, Arthur, you are getting to be quite aLion! To tell the truth, I am jealous of you; and yet I shall not, after this, dare to show my face any where, unaccompanied by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to Mrs. Bailey’s ball, since you seem destined to eclipse me every where. Still, I could not bear to see you sit here moping, night after night, and month after month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see your time’s not all spent in dreaming, either! May I ask, of what fair damsel that is a memento?” pointing to the snow-drop.
Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “ ’Twas Amy’s favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”
“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy; and she has been dead now so long.”
“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the opinions of Voltaire.”
“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so come, let’s to bed.”
Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed; the dark clouds, one by one, rode forth, until their threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of heaven. And the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to and fro its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming strife of elements.
Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a frail, lone vessel, with white sails furled, like the wild bird of storm. And as the heavy thunder boomed o’er the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from cloud to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that vessel’s deck, a human form. His arms were folded on his breast—his head bared to the blast that whistled through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed, without dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended in their mortal hate. And as the winds swept by, making the light vessel leap and plunge upon its foamy bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare, made the heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the ghastly hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured, “On, on, ye raging elements! ye ne’er can equal the war within this heart. I love your horrid music, ’tis soothing to my reeling brain! Once I feared you. Then, oh then, this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long, long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before me, in mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart to love me—to counsel me when I was wrong! but now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile ingratitude—a forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship! How have the powers of Hell been leagued against me since that fatal night, when she, my mother, died of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God! Yet why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s a God—then I’m an outcast, and have been from my infancy. But oh, what were the pains I suffered then, of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which now devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains were bliss to these!”
A week had passed. The same strange being stood at the corner of a dark, deserted street, in the city of ——. No longer a look of proud despair flashed from his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan features. This noble form was bowed, and from his starting eyes there gleamed, bitter, heart-rending misery.
Two days had he sought employment, and sought in vain. There he stood, without a home—withoutfood—without shelter. Beg he could not. A step is heard—a horrid thought darts through his brain; despair nerves him, and, as the unknown passes, he demands his money. The stranger resists—with one stroke of his powerful arm, he fells him to the earth—rifles him of his purse—and fleeing, leaves him for dead.
Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to ruin of the miserable young man. Why follow him in his downward career? Why enter with him into the abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened picture to the mind of innocence? The guilty can imagine it but too well.
For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot whereon she stood. “I think it is all over with him,” said the woman, who had followed her to the bed-side.
Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay upon the coverlid, and pressing her fingers to his pulse, discovered by its faint, slow movement, that the soul yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.
Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication, which, caught by the listening angels, was on wings of rapture borne to the throne of Grace.
Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing wonderingly upon her—“Where is the clergyman who belongs to this institution?”
“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his health!”
“And the physicians?”
“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am,theygave him up long ago.”
At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing aside with Mr. Barker, entered.
“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze intently fixed upon the corpse-like form before her, he looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who said,
“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t know that I ever pitied any one so much in my life. He appears to have seen better days.”
“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.
“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was picked up in the street, almost frozen to death, about six months ago—and has been, until about three weeks since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great deal about his mother, who, as he seems to suppose, was frozen to death—and a sister—and appears to be one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of demons pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with him now.”
“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!” And as she again stooped to take his hand his lids raised, and his large ghastly eyes bent full upon her. Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow, she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears filled her eyes—“You are better now.”
Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily fired his eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—
“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag you down to this horrible place where they have me. Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at you!”
“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and we have come to take you from them!” And calling for some cold water, she seated herself by his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.
“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac, gazing wildly upon her. “My mother, did she send you to release me? And Amy!”
“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the poor creature’s vagaries, “and you shall be happy too! God will send away those demons from you.”
“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason for one moment, seeming to dart across his brain.
“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.
“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this raging fire?” he said, laying his hand upon his heart, “naught but tears can do it! They took them all away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he sank exhausted.
The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every act a halo of beauty; and Mr. Barker, who had been accustomed to see the fair ones of earth shrinking with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch deprived of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as she knelt beside the unhappy sufferer and bathed his temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she had risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was conscious of being addressed.
“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his embarrassment, “cannot this poor man be removed to a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that he is perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or, at least, till he can be removed to the insane hospital.”
“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire, when Lucy entered accompanied by that gentleman.
“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of you and Ellen—I waited till my patience was quite exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his gallantry to help me find you.”
“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought the doctor hither,” said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was just going in search of him, to see if this poor man cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment in the main-building.”
“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking very fast two days ago.”
“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen in surprise.
“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the better. They have no enjoyment themselves, and are a burden to others. And as to his being removed to the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be thought of.”
“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection can possibly be urged to removing a dying man to a comfortable room, even if he be a raging maniac.”
“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a meaning smile, “you seem to have taken a very deep interest in the handsome stranger.”
Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a smile of pitying contempt cradled about her mouth, said calmly—“The suffering, doctor, always excite the sympathies of thehumane, and I trust I am of that class.”
And turning to the unconscious sufferer, she continued bathing his wrists and temples, as if to hide her emotion, while a tear trembled upon her downcast lids.
“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered Lucy, “we can do the poor man no good.”
“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and leave this poor creature without a soul near him in his last moments—and this good woman tells me that he has been pleading for some one to pray for him, which proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne. And if uncle will consent, I will remain here, while Mr. Barker sends for the Rev. Mr. P., whose ear is ever open to the call of distress.”
“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject to remark.”
“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the world’s opinion when it combats not with duty, but if the world remark unjustly, when I do my duty, be it even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”
“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with Lucy, you had better not stay.”
“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, “think, for one moment, if this were your own son. Think if it were Lucy or myself, dying alone, without one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when the poor soul is about to take its flight, perhaps to the presence of an offended God, without one sympathizing soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here, overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon his arm and wept.
“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to his heart, “you shall not only stay, but Lucy and myself will stay with you.”
At length, raising her head, she said—“This place, uncle, is cold and damp, and would, I fear, increase your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you know, dear uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and if you will send nurse and John to me, I will watch here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”
“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much affected. “Mary and myself will share your labors. You have taught us our duty, Miss Lincoln.”
As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the soft caress of the dewy night winds, a rude blast swept it from its trellised home, through an open window, until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.
The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light, rousing the nurse from her recumbent position beside a couch whereon reposed a pale unconscious form. Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the window, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little floweret found a resting-place below, upon the bosom of a sweet bouquet formed of its beauteous sisters. And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the sleeper’s form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that erst had hovered round the fairy child, but greatly changed.
No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings of the mind, nor those of flesh wove chains; but with each other waged a mortal strife. Among the latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and severe. Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and whatsoever it rested on was rendered powerless. Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a radiant light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed; too pure for earth’s conception—and there was seen an angel form bearing a golden vessel.
And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with uplifted pinions, looks of love, and rapturous adoration, gazed on that glorious vision—what these things meant.
“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their pinions to yon glorious light.
“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh, is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and powerless.
“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who, weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened, tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not,cannotcome, untilhis willshall plead.”
The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest supplication! A cry of joyecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended heavenward, and caused the seraphs round the Lamb’s pure throne to tune their harps anew!
Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past, shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much surprise, why this should be?
“These areregrets,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings ofmemory, as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”
It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.
Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement, filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair, his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the winding river as it flowed beneath, not a rippleresting upon its placid surface, save, ever and anon, when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully along, reflecting the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails. At last, raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance of a matron, whose plain, neat attire, and light cautious movement, bespoke the office of nurse, he said —
“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”
“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since, below the hill, and some persons get out. I think the ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the door, and Mr. Norton entered.
The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while a smile of pleasure lit up his features. Grasping it warmly within his own, Mr. Norton said —
“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge. Dr. Warner tells me, if this fine weather continues, we may take you home with us—although, I don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you away from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend this hill and breathe its pure atmosphere, I feel like a young man again. It is, indeed, a delightful situation, just the place for a hospital.”
Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning the pressure of Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness such as has been bestowed upon an object as unworthy as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once have received but one ray, I should not now have to mourn over misspent time and degraded talents.”
“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton, “you have many long years of usefulness yet before you. You must not be sad. I left Ellen and Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred ascending on foot—but here they are, and they must cheer you.”
At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the former approached, an expression of holy joy irradiated his noble features, as with extended hand, she said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we are, indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”
“But he seems to have a slight touch of theblues! You must not let that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton, laughingly.
“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if you did not know it before, you certainly will learn by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of gay wild flowers,) “that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a sombre hue.”
“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.
“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper tone of sadness, “if you had the same power to renew the wasted energies of the mind, and blot out from the pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened heart to the fount of purifying Love, no gleam but that of joy, should ever emanate from my grateful heart.”
“Don’t sayI, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy man who led you to a Saviour’s arms.”
“I do not know which had the greater influence, Miss Lincoln—your sympathy—your earnest pleadings to remain with a poor abandoned wretch in that loathsome room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious, yet powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful watchfulness during that awful night, amid ravings of despair and cries for mercy, intermingled with the yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness and holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one led me to this fount, the other had created in my soul a thirst for its purifying waters. From the moment you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to dawn upon my darkened soul, though at first faint and indistinct, and this morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful landscape, all, all comes up so vividly before my mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it may give you pain, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of some slight expression of gratitude, even though shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I but regain my lost health and strength, how would I labor to show forth the love, mercy, and wisdom of the glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then, Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and kindness have not been thrown away.”
“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen, endeavoring to regain her wonted composure, “has power, if not to obliterate the dark characters upon the pages of memory, to take from them their bitterness.”
“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,” said he with a melancholy smile.
“Ishall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly, (perceiving the embarrassment of her cousin, and wishing to relieve her from the conversation,) “that when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to pull it to pieces.”
Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered flowers. While the little flower-spirit saw his bright guardian, now radiant with heavenly smiles, hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of the noble Ellen.
’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The earth lay slumbering in her fleecy robe of white. The diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the distant hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night, as she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of enchanting loveliness.
In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit upon the soft bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same strange, delicious music filled the atmosphere, that erst had burst from cherub choir that hovered round the sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more triumphant.
Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon a couch, round which gathered weeping friends, a form of manly beauty. The ministers of earth lay cold and lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions of the celestial guardian—whileLovefloated in the ethereal beams of other worlds reflected from the golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows of a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the dying man were fixed; while far above, beyond the deep blue vaults, there burst forth strains of sublime,entrancing melody—as if the revolving spheres had joined the joyous anthem that echoed round the throne of God—a soul redeemed.
“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.
“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen, sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”
And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.
“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn, “why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented, pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that already.”
“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a bright blush suffusing her cheek.
“Simply, appearances. As you saysuchsecrets should not be revealed, I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”
“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”
“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.
“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”
“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying down her work.
“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”
“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious tone, “I wish to ask you another question—will you answer me candidly?”
“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”
“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”
“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to ask such a question?”
“I have two reasons. The one, because the world says so. The other, because I was half in love with him myself, before he became so etherial.”
“The world says so,” responded Ellen.
“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his handsome face at the alms-house; then, afterwards, had him removed to the insane hospital, where he remained at your expense, (though papa did pay the bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the resolution to devote your life tosingleblessedness.”
Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr. L. must have reported that story. Poor fellow! his soul is so given to earth, that he cannot conceive one idea above it—and it is but natural that he should form such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued she, a sad smile lighting up her expressive countenance, “I never felt for Arthur one ray of earthly love! What I did for him at the alms-house, I would have done as you well know, and would still do, for the most hideous wretch who possesses an immortal soul. His deep contrition, and early history, made me feel for him the love of a sister for an erring, but penitent brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and superior powers of mind, did not heighten that interest would be false. We are all formed to love what is beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing more beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of heart—or more God-like and sublime, than great powers of mind rightly directed; for, even when fallen and degraded from their high estate, we cannot divest them of interest. And when he came to reside with us, his pious resignation under suffering, and his deep absorbing love for our blessed Saviour, made me feel as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such, I loved him. And now, every spot that he loved—every flower which he cherished—the room in which he died—all have to me a holy charm!”
“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after a pause; “or do you suppose yourself incapable of feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”
“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since. And as for my affections, were I to permit them to rest upon an object as worthy as he, I doubt not they would cling to it—as the heart must cling to something.”
“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you think we have any power over our affections?”
“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason to suppose otherwise. For why are we punishable for misplaced affections, if we have no power to govern those affections? As I said before, we are created to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the heart turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws of the Deity, but from the transgression of those laws.”
“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed to love all that is good and noble, why do you speak of not permitting your affections to rest upon a worthy object—since they would naturally cling to it?”
“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance radiating with an expression of heavenly beauty, “there is a higher and holier object of love than is found on earth, and to which all human affections should be subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer! In possessing this, we love all that his eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour died.”
“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in order to make ourselves acceptable in the sight of Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a life of single-blessedness?”
“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted by God, and blessed by the presence of his divine Son, can but be holy, and consequently acceptable. But since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so many hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge ofself, and the perfections of the Deity—not taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to thereason, but in words and acts of sympathy and love, which soothe the torn and lacerated heart, and bind in sweet captivity the young and pure. And since, dear cousin, I feel convinced of this truth, I have resolved to devote the fortune, together with the few talents intrusted to my care, to the relief of the unfortunate and distressed. And the reasonIdo not wish to marry, is, that my duties, my affections, would claim much of my energies, and where the force is weak, dear coz, you know that it were better not divided.”
“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing her arms around her, “I fear that I shall never understand you. It was Dr. Warner himself who told me of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so kind to poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to intercede for him. Then papa was anxious you should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part with you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he has ever met worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen, shall I not tell them of your noble resolution? They must love you for it as I do!”
Ellen was silent.
At length, while a mischievous smile danced through her tears, Lucy cried—“I wonder ifIwouldn’t do for the doctor! and then papa can retain all his treasures. There he comes! I must run to tell him of this new plan!” And away she flew to meet her father.