THROUGH A CLOUD-RIFT.
It was with a heavy heart that Mollie Ainslie passed out of the
gate and rode along the lane toward the highway. The autumn sun
shone bright, and the trees were just beginning to put on the gay
trappings in which they are wont to welcome wintry death. Yet,
somehow, everything seemed suddenly to have grown dark and dull.
Her poor weak brain was overwhelmed and dazed by the incongruity of
the life she was leaving with that to which she was going back--for
she had no hesitation in deciding as to the course she ought to
pursue.
She did not need to question as to what had been done or suffered.
If there was any trouble, actual or impending, affecting those she
had served, her place was with them. They would look to her for
guidance and counsel. She would not fail them. She did not once
think of danger, nor did she dream that by doing as she proposed
she was severing herself entirely from the pleasant life at the
fine old country seat which had been so eventful.
She did, indeed, think of Hesden. She always thought of him of late.
Everything, whether of joy or of sorrow, seemed somehow connected
with him. She thought of him--not as going away from him, or as
putting him out of her life, but as deserving his approval by her
act. "He will miss me when he finds that I do not return. Perhaps
he will be alarmed," she said to herself, as she cantered easily
toward the ford. "But then, if he hears what has happened, he will
know where I have gone and will approve my going. Perhaps he will
be afraid for me, and then he will--" Her heart seemed to stop
beating! All its bright current flew into her face. The boundless
beatitude of love burst on her all at once. She had obeyed its
dictates and tasted its bliss for days and weeks, quite unconscious
of the rapture which filled her soul. Now, it came like a great
wave of light that overspread the earth and covered with a halo
all that was in it. How bright upon the instant was everything!
The sunshine was a beating, pulsing ether animated with love! The
trees, the fields, the yellow-breasted lark, pouring forth his autumn
lay, the swallows, glancing in the golden sunshine and weaving in
and out on billowy wing the endless dance with which they hie them
southward ere the winter comes--everything she saw or heard was
eloquent with look and tones of love! The grand old horse that
carried her so easily, how strange and how delightful was this
double ownership, which yet was only one! Hers? Hesden's? Hesden's
because hers, for--ah, glowing cheek! ah, bounding heart! how sweet
the dear confession, breathed--nay told unspokenly--to autumn sky
and air, to field and wood and bird and beast, to nature's boundless
heart--_she_ was but Hesden's! The altar and the idol of his
love! Oh, how its incense thrilled her soul and intoxicated every
sense! There was no doubt, no fear, no breath of shame! He would
come and ask, and she--would give? No! no! no! She could not give,
but she would tell, with word and look and swift embrace, how she
_had_ given--ah! given all--and knew it not! Oh, fairer than
the opened heaven is earth illumined with love!
As she dreamed, her horse's swift feet consumed the way. She reached
the river--a silver billow between emerald banks, to-day! Almost
unheedingly she crossed the ford, just smiling, rapt in her vision,
as memory brought back the darkness of her former crossing! Then
she swept on, through the dark, over-arching pines, their odor
mingling with the incense of love which filled her heart. She had
forgotten Red Wing and all that pertained to it. The new song her
lips had been taught to sing had made thin and weak every melody
of the past, Shall care cumber the heart of the bride? She knew
vaguely that she was going to Red Wing. She recognized the road,
but it seemed glorified since she travelled it before. Once, she
thought she heard her name called. The tone was full of beseeching.
She smiled, for she thought that love had cheated her, and syllabled
the cry of that heart which would not be still until she came again.
She did not see the dark, pleading face which gazed after her as
her horse bore her swiftly beyond his ken.
On and on, easily, softly! She knows she is approaching her journey's
end, but the glamour of love enthralls her senses yet. The last
valley is passed. She ascends the last hill. Before her is Red
Wing, bright and peaceful as Paradise before the spoiler came. She
has forgotten the story which the hostler told. The sight of the
little village but heightens her rapture. She almost greets it
with a shout, as she gives her horse the rein and dashes down the
little street. How her face glows! The wind toys with stray tresses
of her hair! How dull and amazed the people seem whom she greets
so gayly! Still on! Around the angle of the wood she turns--and
comes upon the smouldering church!
Ah, how the visions melt! What a cry of agony goes up from her
white lips! How pale her cheeks grow as she drops the rein from
her nerveless fingers! The observant horse needs no words to check
his swift career. The scene of desolation stops him in an instant.
He stretches out his head and looks with staring eyes upon the
ruin. He snuffs with distended nostrils the smoke that rises from
the burning.
The villagers gather around. She answers every inquiry with low
moans. Gently they lead her horse under the shadow of the great
oak before the old Ordinary. Very tenderly she is lifted down and
borne to the large-armed rocker on the porch, which the weeping,
trembling old "mammy" has loaded with pillows to receive her.
All day long she heard the timid tread of dusky feet and listened
to the tale of woe and fear. Old and young, those whom she had
counselled, and those whom she had taught, alike sought her presence
and advice. Lugena came, and showed her scarred form; brought her
beaten children, and told her tale of sorrow. The past was black
enough, but the shadow of a greater fear hung over the little
hamlet. They feared for themselves and also for her. They begged
her to go back to Mr. Le Moyne's. She smiled and shook her head
with a soft light in her eyes. She would not go back until the king
came and entreated her. But she knew that would be very soon. So
she roused herself to comfort and advise, and when the sun went
down, she was once more the little Mollie Ainslie of the Bankshire
hills, only fairer and ruddier and sweeter than ever before, as she
sat upon the porch and watched with dewy, love-lit eyes the road
which led to Mulberry Hill.
The shadows came. The night fell; the stars came out; the moon
arose--he came not. Stealthy footsteps came and went. Faithful hearts
whispered words of warning with trembling lips. She did not fear.
Her heart was sick. She had not once dreamed that Hesden would
fail to seek her out, or that he would allow her to pass one hour
of darkness in this scene of horror. She almost began to wish the
night might be a counterpart of that which had gone before. She
took out her brother's heavy revolver, loaded every chamber, laid
it on the table beside her chair, and sat, sleepless but dry-eyed,
until the morning.
The days went by. Hesden did not come, and sent no word. He was
but five miles away; he knew how she loved him; yet the grave was
not more voiceless! She hoped--a little--even after that first
night. She pictured possibilities which she hoped might be true. Then
the tones of the mother's voice came back to her--the unexplained
absence--the unfulfilled engagement--and doubt was changed to
certainty! She did not weep or moan or pine. The Yankee girl had no
base metal in her make. She folded up her vision of love and laid
it away, embalmed in the fragrance of her own purity, in the inmost
recess of her heart of hearts. The rack could not have wrung from
her a whisper of her one day in Paradise. She was simply Mollie
Ainslie, the teacher of the colored school at Red Wing, once
more; quiet, cool, and practical, giving herself day by day, with
increased devotion, to the people whom she had served so faithfully
before her brief translation.