Aunt Sarah sat in the wide porch at the back of her house, knitting
in hand. It was a still, but not oppressive August afternoon. There
was not a ruffle on the bright surface of the river, and the long
meadow grass was as smoothly spread out in the yellow sunshine. From
the poultry-yard on the left arose a pleasant murmur, and now and then
a stray hen tiptoed around the end of the house, singing idly as she
rambled. Charley lay on the green mound--his old reading-room--with
a book before him, and to him Aunt Sarah's motherly eyes turned most
frequently. Those kindly orbs were dimmer than they were two summers
ago, and the gentle face was a thought more pensive. A glance into the
sitting-room window, from where she sat, would have showed one Uncle
Nathan's empty arm-chair in the chimney corner, and above it were
suspended his cane and broad-brimmed hat, just as he had put them off
when he took his departure for a country where neither shelter nor
staff is needed. Aunt Sarah's cap had a widow's border now; and in her
faithful heart there was a sadder void than the death of her children
had created--loving parent though she was--and yet more plentiful
springs of sympathy for others bereaved and suffering.
Her rocking-chair was set near the entrance of the hall that bisected
the dwelling; and the front and back doors being open, she had a fair
view of the public road, whenever she chose to look up the lane. The
Shrewsbury stage met the boat at four o'clock, or soon after; and
hearing a rumbling along the highway, which she knew presaged its
transit through this end of the village, the old lady leaned forward to
catch a glimpse of the trunks upon the roof; this being all she could
distinguish with certainty above the fence.
"Why, it is stopping here!" she ejaculated, getting up to obtain a
better look. "Who upon earth can it be?"
The coach rolled on, and the passenger for the farm-house came through
the gate and down the lane. She was dressed in black, wore a crape
veil, and carried a small hand-trunk. With a hospitable instinct, Aunt
Sarah advanced to the front porch to meet her, still entirely in the
dark as to who it could be.
"She has a different look from any of the neighbors; and there's nobody
in York that would be likely to come to see me, except Betsy's people,
and it can't be either of her girls!"
At this stage of her cogitations, the visitant reached the step on
which the hostess stood, and put away the long veil from a face so
worn and seamed with grief, so hollow-eyed and old, that the good aunt
screamed outright in her distressed astonishment--
"Sarah, dear child! can this be you?"
"What I am now, Aunt Sarah. May I come in and stay with you a little
while?"
"Stay with me, poor darling! As long as you like, and welcome! Come
right in; you don't look fit to stand!"
She was not; for, now that the necessity for exertion was removed, she
was faint and trembling. Aunt Sarah helped her upstairs to the room she
had occupied at her former visit, undressed her, and put her to bed.
Sarah submitted like a child, too much exhausted to resist being made
an invalid of, or to offer any explanation of her singular apparition.
She had not slept an hour at a time for many nights; yet when she had
drunk a cup of tea, and tried to eat a bit of toast her aunt prepared
and brought up to her, she fell into a profound slumber, which lasted
until long after sunrise on the following morning. Unclosing her eyes
then, they rested upon the dear face, shaded by the widow's cap, that
watched at her bedside. A shadowy phantom of a smile flitted over her
features at the recognition.
"It was not a dream, then?" she said languidly. "But I have dreamed of
you often, of late--every night in which I have had any sleep. Aunt
Sarah, I must tell you why I came to you!"
"Not now, dear," Aunt Sarah hastened to say, seeing the wild stare and
the cloud return to her countenance. "Wait until you are stronger.
I will bring up your breakfast, and when you have eaten it, you may
try to dress, if you like. There will be time enough for your story,
by-and-by. Charley is in a great fidget to see you."
Sarah submitted to the delay; but it was plain that she was not
satisfied with it, and that her mind would be easier when once the tale
was told. Aunt Sarah hindered her no longer a time than sufficed for
her to take the much needed refreshment, to bathe and dress, and to see
and exchange a few sentences with Charley, who supported her down to
the sitting-room. There, resting among the pillows of the lounge, Aunt
Sarah beside her, with the ubiquitous knitting-work in hand, lest too
close observation should confuse her niece, the stricken one unfolded
the whole of her sad history.
No more affecting proof could have been given of her prostrated
mind and will than this unreserved recital. The secret she had sold
conscience and liberty to preserve, she communicated now without a
blush. Here--where she had formed the intimacy that had shadowed so
darkly her after days--she detailed every step of the wrong course to
which this weakness was a key; went over all--the stormy parting with
her husband; her conviction of the mutual peril she and Philip were
tempting in their daily communion; her resolve of self-destruction--as
circumstantially as if she were relating the biography of another.
Aunt Sarah, horrified and pitiful by turns, struggled with indifferent
success to maintain equal composure, and against growing doubts of
the narrator's sanity. It was a striking and instructive contrast:
the world-weary woman returning for consolation and advice to the
simple-minded matron, to whom the artificial existence she now heard
depicted--its gilded vices and giddy round of vanities; its trials and
temptations--were a wonderful, a monstrous tale, as foreign to her
sphere of principles and feelings as if they had transpired in another
world. But when Sarah came to speak of her child, her manner changed,
her voice was hoarse and uneven, and over the careworn visage there
went such alterations of fierceness and heart-breaking sorrow that the
listening mother, upon whose soul the shadow of her own children's
graves still lay long and dark, could hear no more in silence.
"My poor girl!" she cried, falling on her knees, and throwing her arms
around the reclining figure. "Dear child! Our Father in heaven pity and
comfort you! There is no help in man for such trouble as yours!"
Sarah had not shed a tear in the course of her story. She said
afterwards that she had not wept since they took her dead baby from
her clasp; but at this burst of unfeigned sympathy, this gush of
pure love and compassion, the burning rock was cleft, and a blessed
flood streamed from it. For some minutes they wept together without
restraint, and when the more quiet grief of the elder mourner was
repressed, the other still clung, sobbing to her bosom.
Aunt Sarah held and soothed her as she would have done a sorrowful
child; stroking away the hair from her forehead, drying and kissing the
tear-stained cheeks, with many an epithet of fond reassurance.
"Let me finish! There is very little more!" resumed Sarah, keeping
her aunt's hand fast in both of hers. "We went back to the city, and
the next day we laid her in Greenwood. We stayed at father's--I would
not return to the house that used to be mine. Father was very kind,
and mother meant to be; but she tormented me with suggestions and
consultations about my black clothes. Lucy was pining to get back to
Newport. She said it was hot and dull in New York. Philip wanted to
comfort me, but I shunned him, and I think he was hurt by my conduct;
but it was best, was it not, Aunt Sarah?"
"Certainly, dear!"
"I had often imagined myself lonely before; but I never dreamed of
such a horror of desolation as filled my soul during the two days that
I remained there, after all was over. Twenty times each night I would
start from a feverish doze, thinking that I heard my baby cry or moan
as she did in the intervals of those awful convulsions; and then would
come in upon me, as if I had never felt it until then, the truth that
I could never see her again, and that my wicked, wicked intention of
deserting her had brought this judgment upon me. I could not stay
there, Aunt Sarah! I heard other voices besides my child's in the air,
and saw strange, grinning faces in the darkness. But the worst was to
see that, to every one but me, the world was the same that it had ever
been. Father looked grave when I was in his sight; but the children
could laugh and talk as if nothing had happened, and I have seen mother
and Lucy chattering merrily in the room with the dressmaker over my
new dresses, while they were criticizing the crape trimmings. And I
had buried my last earthly hope in my baby's grave! Then I remembered
you, and how you had talked to me of your lost children, and how you
had assured me of a home in your heart and house whenever I chose to
claim it, and I believed in you, Aunt Sarah! There are not many whom I
do trust; but I was sure you never said what you did not mean. I would
not tell them that I was coming for I feared they would prevent me. I
slipped out of the house when none of them were at home, and went to
the nearest hack-stand, where I got into a carriage and drove down to
the boat."
"My dear, did you leave no letter to let them know where you had gone?"
"No, ma'am. I was afraid they would come or send for me, and I cannot
go back."
"But your father--your mother! Did you not think how distressed they
would be when they missed you? And your reputation? What will be said
when it's known that you have left your father's house, and no one
knows where you are? You are very weak and tired, dear; but you must
sit up, right away, and write a note home. Tell them that I will take
care of you as long as you like to stay with me, but don't lose a
minute! You may be in time for the afternoon boat."
Sarah obeyed; and the careful old lady hurried Charley off to the boat,
with directions to place the billet in the hands of the captain, who
was a personal friend, and could be relied upon to post it directly he
reached the city.
Mr. Hunt replied without delay. Sarah's absence had given rise
to the most harrowing conjectures, made plausible by her extreme
melancholy and fitful behavior since her infant's death. The police
had been privately notified of her disappearance, and cautiously
worded advertisements inserted in the papers. He regretted to add
that Mr. Marlow, who, as Mr. Hammond's nearest friend, was informed
of the distressing occurrence, had thought proper to communicate the
intelligence to Mr. H. before Sarah's note arrived, and the steamer
bearing the letter had sailed. Mr. Hunt expressed himself as entirely
willing that his daughter should remain in her present retreat until
her health of mind and body was re-established, but did not conceal his
disapprobation of the manner of her leaving home.
Aunt Sarah looked concerned as she read this epistle, which her niece
had passed over to her.
"I am sorry for your husband, my dear. This affliction, coming so close
upon the other, will be a dreadful blow. It is a pity they did not wait
awhile, until they knew something of your whereabouts, before writing
to him.
"I am more sorry that the news must be contradicted," was the reply.
"As we are now situated, the certainty of my death would be a relief
to him. This was my reflection that night"--She left the sentence
unfinished.
"My dear!" Aunt Sarah removed her spectacles, and surveyed her niece
with her kind, serious eyes. "Have you made up your mind to live
separate from your husband for the rest of your life?"
"What else should I do, aunt? He will never come back unless I promise
to love him, and that cannot be."
"That doesn't alter the fact of your duty, as I look at it. You ought
to make him an offer to do right, at any rate. It would have been
easier and pleasanter to live with him, if you had felt for him as a
woman should for the man she marries; but you are married to him, and
in the sight of the Lord you ought to cleave to him, and him only. That
is a solemn covenant, dear--'for richer, for poorer; for better, for
worse!' 'Those whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!'
It doesn't excuse people, who take these vows upon them when the right
spirit is wanting, that they never thought how awful the engagement
was. Their obligations are just the same, whether they love or not."
"The responsibility does not rest with me. I performed my duty while
we were together. The separation was his act, and he must abide the
consequences. I have erred greatly, Aunt Sarah; but ever since the
night of our rupture, my conscience has been easy with respect to Mr.
Hammond. I confessed that I had misled him, and begged his pardon.
Could I do more?"
"Put the case to yourself, child! Do not be angry if I speak out my
mind, and use against you some things you have told me. When you saw
that Philip was growing to like you better and better, and that you
felt nearer to him every day, why did you determine to die sooner than
to have things go on so?"
"Because it would have been a crime for us to love each other--infamous
treachery to my sister, to his wife, for us to name the word between
us."
"And how would Lucy have felt, if you had come to an understanding and
spoken out the true feeling of your hearts?"
"Hers is a careless, indolent nature, but this insult would have
aroused her. She would never have forgiven him or me, had she suspected
a warmer sentiment on either side than that of friendship."
"But an honorable, affectionate man like your husband, who thought
his wife the most precious thing in the world, was to forget his
disappointment, overlook your lack of love and truth towards him, only
because you allowed that he had found out your real feelings at last,
and all the excuse you could give was that you could not help them! You
were the one in fault all the way through, from the day you engaged to
marry him, up to the minute when you would not say the word he begged
from you to keep him at home. It is right that all the advance should
come from you."
High-spirited as Sarah was, she was not angered by this plain-speaking.
"Faithful are the wounds of a friend;" and she felt that she had but
this one. Aunt Sarah studied her thoughtful countenance before she
renewed the argument.
"I am an old-fashioned woman, dear--born and bred in the country,
where, thank God! I have spent all my life. But I've been thinking
about your story of the way people act and feel up there in York, and
maybe in all other great, fine, money-making cities, and my notion is
just this. I look back of their pushing and straining after riches, and
show, and worldly vanities; every man for himself, and the one that
climbs highest, forgetting as soon as he gets there that he was ever
any lower, and ready to kick over anybody that tries to get alongside
of him; and I see that they have lost sight of the second great
commandment--'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' Then I look
back of this too, and I see where the greatest sin is, and--dear, bear
with me! I see where you have gone furthest astray. Here's a passage I
was reading this morning that tells the whole story." She raised the
Bible from the table, and laid it upon Sarah's lap, pointing as she did
so to these words enclosed in brackets:
"Because thou hast forgotten the God of thy salvation, and hast not
been mindful of the rock of thy strength, therefore shalt thou plant
pleasant plants, and shalt set it with strange slips. In the day thou
shalt make thy plant to grow, and in the morning shalt thou make thy
seed to flourish; but the harvest shall be a heap in the day of grief
and desperate sorrow!"
Mrs. Hunt would have regarded as an insult any expressed doubt of
her religious principles and practice. She had a desirable pew in
the fashionable church which was nearest her residence, and, stormy
Sabbaths excepted, it was generally full at morning service. When her
children were presentable as to looks, very young babies being seldom
pretty, they were offered in fine lawn and Valenciennes at the font
for the rite of baptism; and not a confirmation had passed since her
daughters were grown, that she did not fancy how interesting they
would look, kneeling before the surpliced bishop, heads gracefully
bowed, and the regards of the whole congregation fixed upon them. Sarah
never could be brought to the performance of the commonest act of
public worship, unless it was to rise with the rest, when a standing
posture was prescribed by the prayer-book; and she shocked her mother
by declaring that she only did this because she was tired of sitting!
Lucy's serene grace of devoutness was beautiful, if not edifying to
behold. Those who occupied adjacent pews involuntarily suppressed
their responses as her mellow tones repeated, with melancholy
sweetness--"Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!" And as the melting
cadences entranced their ears, the lovely penitent was speculating upon
the probable cost of Miss Hauton's Parisian hat, or coveting Mrs. Beau
Monde's sable cloak.
If Sarah had even heard of regeneration, it was as a technical phrase
of the church articles and christening service. Of its practical
meaning, its inward application, its absolute necessity to the safety
of the soul, she had as vague a conception as a Parsee or New Zealand
cannibal would have formed. She had read the Bible in connection with
rhetorical lectures, and admired it as a noble specimen of Oriental
literature. What other associations could she have with it? A handsome
copy of the Holy Scriptures, surmounted by a book of common prayer, lay
on a stand in Mrs. Hunt's third and rear parlor, and was dusted when a
like attention was paid to the other ornaments of tables and etageres.
An Oxford edition, russet antique, formed one of the wedding-gifts of
each of the sisters, and in due time was laid in pious pomp on its
purple pillow in the library corner. It was hardly strange, then, that
the quotation, so apposite to the case in point, should fail to impress
her very strongly. Aunt Sarah had gone out, deeming solitary reflection
the best means of enforcing the lesson she had tried to inculcate, and,
after re-reading the two verses, without further appropriation of their
meaning, Sarah turned leaf after leaf of the volume, catching here and
there a sentence of the large print, so grateful to the failing sight
of her who was its daily student.
"David said unto his servants--'Is the child dead?' And they said, 'He
is dead!'"
The smitten chord in the mother's heart sent out a ring of pain, and
her listless hand paused upon the open page. It is a simple story--the
royal parent's unavailing wrestle with the Chastener, the dread
end of his suspense, and the affliction, made manifest in the calm
resignation, the sanctified trust of the mourner. But when received as
Sarah read it, with the vision of a similar death-scene intermixing
itself with its unadorned details, the fresh blood still welling from
the wound made by the tearing away of a portion of one's own life,
every line is fraught with truth and pathos.
"Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return
to me!"
"Go to her! Oh, if I could! My baby! my baby!"
To the low, sad cry succeeded a season of yearning and of tears. It
was an echo of the wail of the heathen mother who, centuries ago,
having seen her babes slain before her eyes, cried aloud, in unselfish
agony, as the sword, reeking with their blood, was plunged into her own
bosom--"Oh, my children! where are ye?"
Sleep on, in thy lowly bed upon the hillside, sweet Baby Belle! Like
the pale buds that are fading with thee in thy narrow resting-place,
thy mission on earth is accomplished. Joy, young freed spirit, if,
stealing through the melodies of heaven, there comes to thee the
whisper of that mother's call! Fair lamb! the love that folded thee in
the Shepherd's arms designed likewise, in recalling thee, to lure the
wandering parent home!