BONDAGE.
“Look at them out of the window! no, indeed! If they are so anxious to
see their sister after a four years’ separation, let them come to her in
her chamber of sickness,” was Cora’s reply to an affectionate message
from the newly-arrived travellers conveyed to her through Isa. “Since
strangers are not afraid of infection,” she continued with a sneer, “it
shows that the danger may be braved even by those who have not, like
Arthur Madden, a reputation for heroic self-devotion.”
“Still the bitterness—still the satire: can trial and sickness teach
her nothing?” thought Isa, as she left the room to send, in softened
form, the ungracious message of Cora to her brother and sister, who were
waiting in front of the house which they were forbidden to enter. Isa
had already explained to Cora how great would be to Arthur the useless
risk of a meeting, she had therefore felt it unnecessary to reply to a
sarcasm which was at once so ungenerous and unjust.
Cora, against the remonstrances of her gentle nurses, had insisted on
rising and dressing. She was impatient of all restraint, and opposition
only made her irritable. The first moment that she found herself alone,
she walked up to the toilette-table and looked into the glass. For
several minutes Cora remained motionless, mutely staring into the too
faithful mirror, as if the frightful image which it contained had the
transfixing power of the Gorgon; then she slowly turned from it, with her
soul overflowing with bitterness. Miss Madden had possessed a certain
share of good looks, which her vanity had magnified into beauty; now
all had passed for ever away. Time, indeed, would remove much of the
disfigurement which made a once handsome countenance hideous, but Cora
knew too well that in her case time would never entirely efface the marks
left by the small-pox. Perhaps no woman in Cora’s position would have
been insensible to a trial such as this, but to one who had sought all
her happiness from the world, to whom its smile had been sunshine, the
trial was well-nigh intolerable. The loss of her personal attractions
was to Cora a greater affliction than that of her property had been.
Therefore was it that the heart of Cora was as a well of bitterness, full
to the brim and overflowing in rebellion against God, and malice against
her happier fellow-creatures.
And was there no gratitude towards the generous girl who had not only
drawn, as it were, a sponge over the record of injuries past, but at the
cost of a painful sacrifice had acted the part of a sister towards her?
Did no feeling of tenderness arise in the bosom of Cora when she looked
on the bright lovely face which might so soon, for her sake, be marred
like her own? It might have been so, even with Cora Madden, had she not
chosen to regard the conduct of Isa, as well as that of Gaspar, as the
result of interested calculation. “They knew well enough,” she muttered
to herself, “that once under their roof they had me at an advantage.
Isa lavishes attentions on me as men pour water on gunpowder, when they
fear to be shattered by its explosion. It was folly in me to consent to
receive such hypocritical kindness; I wish that I had driven at once to
Axe. But I have the wit to penetrate their designs, and the spirit to
defeat them.”
With this impression on her mind, Cora, on Isa’s re-entering her
apartment, at once addressed her in a tone of formal politeness,—
“I shall also have to trouble you, Miss Gritton, with a message to
your brother. As soon as I have sufficient strength to go downstairs,
I shall request an interview with Mr. Gritton, that we may come to an
understanding on the unpleasant subject which I mentioned to him in my
note. Doubtless,” continued Cora with a sarcastic smile, “he will be
glad of an opportunity of showing me with what a tender regard for my
interests he, as my agent, always has acted.”
Isa could make no reply; she did not trust herself even to look at
the countenance of Cora, but at once quitted the room to convey the
message to her brother. Scarcely had the door closed behind her when the
attention of Cora was attracted by the sound of loud cheers rising from
the direction of the little school which had been built by Arthur in
Wildwaste, the manly voices of workmen blending with the shriller huzzas
of the young.
“What can the idle villagers be shouting for?” said Cora to herself as
she approached the window, and, concealing herself behind the muslin
curtain, looked down on the scene below. She saw the whole population of
Wildwaste—men, women, and children—gathered around an open carriage to
welcome back the benefactor of all. Even old Bolder, forgetful of his
infirmities, had dragged himself into the sunshine, to greet with hearty
joy the friend of the poor. Cora caught a glimpse of the face of her
brother, beaming with pure happiness, as he bent forward to recognize
familiar faces in the crowd. Cora turned away with an expression of scorn
on her lip, but a pang of envy at her heart. To whom would her presence
bring joy? from whom could she look for welcome, either in this world
or in the next? She had dwelt, like her brother, near Wildwaste; she
had enjoyed the same opportunities as Arthur of instructing the ignorant
and feeding the hungry. He had helped the poor—she had despised them; he
had found his happiness in doing his Master’s will—she had sought hers
in following her own. _Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness
for the upright in heart_; but on all that Cora had most prized was the
mournful sentence inscribed, _Vanity of vanities, all is vanity_. Malice,
worldliness, and pride now tormented the soul of Cora; these spiritual
foes had come to her first as the Midianites to Israel in the time of
Moses, not to alarm but to seduce. She had welcomed and harboured the
tempters till they remained as masters and tyrants within: she now felt
their yoke to be galling indeed.
The spirit of Gaspar Gritton was also acutely sensible at this time of
the degradation of its bondage. The idea of the approaching interview
with Miss Madden oppressed him with a humiliating feeling of fear. Nor
was Gaspar free from care on the account of his sister. Isa’s gentleness
and unselfishness had had their natural effect in thawing that cold
ungenial heart, and an undefined terror arose in it that he might, by
pursuing his own interests, have sacrificed the life of the only being on
earth whom he loved.
“Isa, you do not feel ill?” said Gaspar that evening to his sister, whom
he had been for some time watching in anxious silence. Isa was sitting
in the study, apparently engaged in reading, but it was long since she
had turned the page; her head was leaning on her hand, a vivid colour was
on her cheek, but her appearance denoted languor and weariness, and, when
Gaspar spoke, her large soft eyes had heavily closed, as if for slumber.
“No, not exactly ill,” replied Isa, with a languid smile; “I have but a
little headache, and feel as if I wanted rest.”
“God grant that you have not taken the infection!”
“I was just thinking that if I should take it—and it is very possible
that I may do so—it would be well for me to speak a few words to you
before we are separated by illness or—or that in which illness might
end.” Isa had been silently praying for courage to make one effort
more—it might be the last—to persuade her unhappy brother to act a just
and honourable part. “I have told you our father’s last commands, oh,
let me join to them a sister’s entreaties. Gaspar, act towards Cora
Madden as you will wish that you had acted when you both stand before the
judgment-seat of God.” Isa spoke with emotion, and the feverish flush on
her cheek grew brighter than before.
“What would you have me do?” asked Gaspar, in a low, agitated voice.
“What conscience bids, what God’s Word directs,” replied Isa,—“make
restitution.”
Gaspar rose and strode once or twice up and down the apartment with his
hands behind him; his brow furrowed with an anxious frown. Presently
he stopped short before his sister, whose soul was rising in silent
supplication for her tempted brother.
“Isa, you ask too much. To refund that money would be to acknowledge that
it never ought to have been mine.”
“But how will you then dare to meet face to face with one whom, I fear,
you have wronged?”
“I’ll not meet Cora Madden—I’ll leave this place—I’ll go abroad!” said
Gaspar hurriedly, giving voice to a thought which had often recurred to
his mind.
“And leave me?” cried Isa reproachfully.
“You will be with relations who care for you; you will be in the Castle,
or—;” Gaspar stopped short, for a terrible thought flashed across him as
he looked at the drooping form of his sister, that she might find a yet
safer resting-place from sorrow and disgrace in the grave.
[Illustration: ISA’S LAST APPEAL TO HER BROTHER.]
Startled by the idea, as by a spectre, Gaspar insisted on Isa’s at once
retiring to seek the rest which she needed. She lingered, from the
feeling that she might not be able to rise in the morning; that the
languor and pain which she felt might be signs that the fatal fever was
already in her veins. Isa could not leave Gaspar without one more appeal
to the tempted one, whom—a secret foreboding voice seemed to whisper—she
was now for the last time addressing. Isa returned back from the door
to the spot where her brother was seated, softly laid her hand on his
shoulder, pressed her feverish lips on his brow, and then murmured, “O
Gaspar, fly not from duty! Whither can we go without having God and
our conscience still beside us?” After uttering this last warning, she
hastily quitted the room.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]