A TRIUMPH.
With a very slow step, aching heart, and knees that trembled beneath
her, Isa reascended the staircase. One apparently insuperable difficulty
had been overcome,—Gaspar had consented to make full reparation. Isa
could feel thankful for this; but she had now a breathing-space for
consideration, and with inexpressible repugnance she now recoiled from
the task set before her. It had been hard to banish from her heart
resentful emotions in regard to Cora; it had been hard to Isa to receive
an enemy into her home, to tend her as a sister, to risk health and
life in her service. But there had been nothing to wound pride in all
this; on the contrary, Isa had stood in the elevated position of a
benefactress, as one enjoying the noblest kind of revenge by repaying
injuries with kindness. The consciousness of this had brought a feeling
of gratification. But her position was painfully altered now. Isa
must humble herself in the presence of a woman whom she neither loved
nor respected; she must, as the representative of her brother, confess
guilt—ask for forgiveness—plead for mercy! Isa stopped half-way on the
stairs, supporting herself on the banister, for every fibre in her frame
was trembling with strong emotion. She had ventured, as it were, to the
outskirts of the camp of Midian, and felt that she lacked courage to
strike the final blow for freedom. A silent cry for help arose to heaven
from the depths of a suffering heart.
Cora was one to whom it would be especially painful to make a confession
such as that which burdened the soul of Isa. Miss Madden had been brought
much into contact with the world, had imbibed its spirit, and adopted
one of its most dangerous ideas,—namely, a disbelief in the existence
of faith as a ruling motive. Notwithstanding the noble example of piety
which she had had before her in her own brother, Cora had persisted in
regarding all men as governed either by self-interest or the love of
approbation.
“Sir Robert Walpole said, and said truly,” Cora had once lightly
observed, “that every man has his price; only some will have it told down
in hard cash, and others are quite contented with the paper-money of
praise.”
Thus Cora refused to see the reflected glory of the Saviour in His
people: however brightly their light might shine, she believed that it
was fed from an earthly source, and eagerly caught at every instance of
inconsistency in the servants of God to confirm her theory that they only
wore piety as a mask, and, in fact, were much the same with the show of
religion as the rest of the world were without it.
It was this fallacy more than anything else that had hardened the heart
of Cora, and made her justify herself in her own indifference towards
spiritual things. She would draw down all to the same low level as
herself, and thus hope to escape condemnation in a crowd. Cora’s chilling
disbelief in the practical influence of faith had been shaken when she
had first been admitted into the home of Isa Gritton while suffering from
an infectious complaint. The ice which the world had encrusted round her
heart had given some signs of melting. Then the idea that the Grittons
were, after all, only acting from self-interest, had almost restored her
frigid scepticism; she would not recognize the reality and the power of
that faith which worketh by love. The sudden and strange disappearance
of Gaspar had confirmed Cora in her impressions. “He flies me because he
fears me,” was the reflection of the proud woman; and the insolence of
her spirit had broken out even in the presence of the anxious sister.
“Perhaps Miss Gritton has an idea not only whither, but for what cause,
her brother had so suddenly vanished from this neighbourhood,” had been
Cora’s sneering remark.
And yet, with all her bitterness and worldliness of spirit, Cora was
capable of more generous feeling. She was a woman, and, like a woman,
could cherish disinterested affection. Cora keenly felt her own isolation
in life, that isolation which she feared that her personal disfigurement
would now render perpetual. She had cut herself off from the proffered
affection of Arthur and Lina; she had quarrelled with Lionel’s wife; she
had many acquaintances, but was painfully aware that she had never made
one true friend. Cora, especially during her illness, had often yearned
for the love of a gentle, sympathizing heart, and something of gratitude,
something of admiration, had drawn her towards Isa Gritton.
“How ill Miss Gritton looks to-night; I fear that she is sickening for
the fever,” Mrs. Holdich had observed, on Isa’s quitting the room to
go and search for papers in the study, at the time when, as the reader
knows, Lottie was exploring the vault.
The observation had inflicted a sharp pang on Cora; she was startled on
realizing the possibility that Isa’s life might indeed be given for her
own, and a contrast would suggest itself between the comparative value
of those lives. Isa, as Cora knew from Rebekah Holdich, was the light of
her brother’s home, the gentle benefactress of the poor, and, as Cora
was at that very time experiencing, a generous friend to those who needed
her aid. In her, more than in any one else, Cora had caught a glimpse
of the beauty of holiness; in her, more than in any one else, Cora had
been almost forced to recognize the power of faith; and at that moment
the proud, cold woman felt that there was one being on earth whom she
could love, one whom she could not endure to see fall a sacrifice to her
generous kindness to herself.
Cora’s bitter but salutary reflections were interrupted by the noise and
excitement below, which followed the discovery of Gaspar Gritton in the
vault. The loud call of Hannah for assistance was distinctly heard in
the upper rooms occupied by Miss Madden; and Cora sent down Mrs. Holdich
in haste to ascertain the cause of such an unusual disturbance. Rebekah
did not return for a considerable time, and Cora grew so impatient that
she could hardly restrain herself from hurrying downstairs. Mrs. Holdich
came at last with the information that Mr. Gritton had been found in
an insensible state in a vault, that he had been removed to his own
apartment, and that his sister was carefully tending him there. This
was all which Cora could learn from Rebekah, and it did not satisfy her
thirst for information; she determined not to retire to rest until she
had seen Isa Gritton. To beguile the time, Cora went up to Isa’s little
bookcase, hoping to find there some light reading to amuse herself with.
One volume, from the elegance of its binding, attracted Miss Madden’s
attention, and she drew it forth from its place. It contained no work
of fiction, as Cora had hoped and expected, but a selection of hymns.
At another time Cora would have replaced the book, with perhaps an
expression of scorn; but she was in a softened mood on that night, and
her eye was attracted by the marking and double-marking on the margin of
many of the pages. Chiefly from curiosity, but possibly from a better
motive, Miss Madden carried the book to the place where she usually sat
on her soft-cushioned chair, seated herself, and began to read in a
desultory way.
One of the hymns which had been most strongly marked by Isa was the
well-known one commencing with the line,—
“And dost thou say, Ask what thou wilt?”
This hymn was an especial favourite with Isa, who knew it by heart; but
the proud, selfish woman who now perused it, in the stillness of night
and the seclusion of a sick-room, seemed to be introduced into a new
world of sensation as she read the lines, which express a Christian’s
most fervent desire:
“More of Thy presence, Lord, impart,
More of Thine image let me bear;
Enthrone Thyself within my heart,
And reign without a rival there.
“Grant this request, I ask no more,
But to Thy care the rest resign;—
Sick, or in health, or rich, or poor,
All shall be well if Thou art mine.”
“Can it be that any human being really feels this?” thought Cora, half
closing the volume. “I cannot believe it. And yet Isa Gritton has acted
as if she felt it. But no, no—she is at this moment playing the part of
an accomplice of her money-loving brother. Her faith may make her like
such a book as this, mark it, perhaps cry over it; it may give her that
gentleness and kindliness which have half won me over to love her in
spite of myself; it may—yes, it may possibly have some effect in taking
away the fear of losing beauty, or even life; but when it comes to the
question of its requiring such integrity of conduct as would involve
loss and disgrace, faith will find it expedient to confine itself to
sentimental devotion, and the saint will come forth from the closet to
act in the world—as the children of the world always act.”
A gentle hand noiselessly turned the handle of the door, and Isa glided
into the room. She was surprised to see Cora still awake and sitting up
at the midnight hour.
“I thought that I should have found my patient asleep,” she observed.
“I could not have slept till I had seen you; I wanted to hear about your
brother.”
Isa rather sank than seated herself upon a chair; a cold shiver ran
through her frame; she knew not if the overpowering sensations which
oppressed her arose only from the reaction after painful excitement, or
if she were indeed sickening for a terrible complaint.
“I may be delirious ere morning,” thought Isa; “I must speak now, or I
never may have power to speak. May it not be deemed providential that I
am given an opportunity of confession by this midnight interview with
Cora!”
“Miss Gritton, you look sadly ill,” said Cora, with more of sympathy than
Isa had ever before heard in her tone. “Are you very anxious regarding
your brother?”
“I am very anxious indeed,” replied Isa faintly, glancing at the closed
door which divided the ladies from the room in which Mrs. Holdich was
resting, to be sure that no ear but Cora’s should hear what she was
bracing up her courage to say. “Miss Madden, I have come charged with a
message to you from Gaspar.” Isa paused, for she was very breathless;
her heart fluttered—she had a strange difficulty in articulating her
words; she dared not look up and meet the keen gaze which she was
certain was fixed upon her. “My brother believes—feels sure—that there
is no evidence which could be produced in a court of law which could
bring home to him that—that of which you have been led to suspect him.”
Another very painful pause; Isa pressed her hand to her side to still
the throbbing of her heart. “But,” she continued with an effort, “Gaspar
knows—owns—that though man cannot convict, there is a higher tribunal
than man’s, and before it he cannot plead his innocence. It was indeed
not your property which was lost in the _Orissa_—your money is in the
hands of my brother, and shall be restored, principal and interest;
you shall have ample satisfaction as far as gold can give it. And oh,
Cora—Miss Madden—will not this compensation suffice? will you not forgive
all the past, and spare the reputation of him who thus throws himself on
your indulgence? will you not shield from reproach one who is ready amply
to redeem the wrong committed under strong temptation, and show your
generosity by burying this unhappy affair in silence and oblivion?”
Isa clasped her hands as she spoke in the fervour of her pleading; her
eyes suddenly raised met those of Cora, and to her surprise beheld them
brimming over with tears.
Cora rose from her seat. “O Isa,” she exclaimed, “fear nothing from me!
Had the wrong been tenfold, I have learned from you how to forgive—and
much besides!” And with a burst of emotion, which all her pride could
not restrain, Cora threw her arms around Isa, who found herself, to her
great astonishment, pressed to the heart of one who had been her bitter,
malignant enemy.
[Illustration: THE CONFESSION.]
The victories of faith are not only over inward foes: when the ways of a
man are pleasing to the Lord, He maketh even his enemies to be at peace
with him. Isa, in her gentleness and Christian sympathy, her uprightness,
her obedience to the call of duty, had done more to lead her proud,
erring heart to repentance than all the sermons which had fallen on the
ear of Cora like seed on the trodden wayside. Cora had never realized
how far she herself was from being a Christian, till she had seen
exemplified in one of her own sex and station what a Christian should be.
It was in the hour when Isa felt humiliated, covered with shame for the
errors of a brother, that she had forced from proud lips that tribute to
her character which was in itself an acknowledgment of inferiority such
as no being had ever before wrung from Cora Madden. Isa had won a noble
triumph—she had conquered the heart of her foe.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]