THE END.
I never saw Mrs. Le Grande again alive. The following morning I made my
confession to Mr. Winthrop, and got his consent to continue my visits
to the sick room, at Rose Cottage, until recovery or death should take
place. My one anxiety as I walked along the field and woodland that day,
was lest my face might reveal to her keen vision the gladness that
thrilled all my pulses. I did not wait to ring the bell but went directly
to her rooms. The parlor door was closed; when I opened it, at the
farther end of the room I was startled to see a white-robed form lying on
one of the sofas.
I hesitated with sudden fear, but finally summoning all my resolution I
crossed the room and stood beside the clay-cold form of Mrs. Le Grande.
The nurse who was in the adjoining room came to my side and after a few
seconds' silence she said, gently:
"I never felt so lonesome with any dying person as with her last night."
"Did she know she was dying?"
"Yes, we told her. It seemed dreadful to let her go before her Maker
without a prayer for mercy, but her thoughts, for all we told her, were
more about this world than the next. She made her will as soon as the
doctor came. We sent for him in haste, and then she told us what to put
on her when we prepared her for the coffin. That's the gown she was to
have been married in. She said: 'Mr. Winthrop shall see his bride in her
wedding dress, at last.'"
I looked at the rich white satin, with its exquisite trimming of lace,
and the fresh gathered roses instead of orange blossoms.
"Did she say nothing about where her soul was going?" I asked, yet
dreading a reply.
"After he'd got the will drawn, the doctor asked her if her business for
another world was satisfactorily arranged; but she said the next world
would have to wait its turn after she'd got there; she had no strength
left to make any more preparations."
I turned away, too sick at heart to listen longer, but the nurse followed
me with a message from the dying woman.
"It was her special request that you and Mr. Winthrop should come to her
funeral, and afterward be present at the reading of the will. I am not at
liberty to explain, but I think you will regret it if you do not come.
She said that was to be the sign of reconciliation between her and Mr.
Winthrop."
"I will deliver the message, and, if possible, prevail on him to come,"
I promised, and then hastily left the house. When I reached home I went
directly to the library where I found Mr. Winthrop. He looked surprised
to see me back so soon, and then, noticing traces of tears on my face,
said:
"What is wrong, little one?"
"Mrs. Le Grande died sometime during the night. The nurse told me she
showed no anxiety respecting her future state."
He was silent. At last I said: "You have forgiven her, Mr. Winthrop?"
"Forgiven her! Yes, Medoline; and if she had lived, I could never have
repaid her for the lesson she taught me, and the favor she conferred on
me by going away so abruptly."
"Then you will grant her last request that we should both attend her
funeral, and the reading of her will. I have an impression she has left
each of us some keepsake, as a token of her repentance."
"Don't you think, little one, that would be a mercenary motive to take us
there?"
"But I want you to grant her dying request," I murmured, already ashamed
of my argument.
"We will both go, assuredly; and in the meantime I shall see that
preparations for her funeral are suitably arranged."
"You will look upon her dead face; she left directions as to how she
should be robed for the grave. She said you should see your bride in her
wedding dress at last."
"I expect, before many weeks, to see my own precious bride. I shall be
indifferent as to her dress. It will be herself I shall look at," he said
with a caress that for the time made me forget Mrs. Le Grande.
We went to the funeral, to which went also a good part of the townsfolk;
for curiosity was on tip-toe. Thomas was greatly mystified when Mr.
Winthrop, leaving Mrs. Flaxman at Oaklands, bade him drive us back to
Linden Lane. Dr. Hill was there, and Mrs. Le Grande's lawyer from New
York, and Dr. Townshend, who had drawn her will, with the nurse and
landlady, who were her witnesses. Presently the lawyer put on his
spectacles, and broke the seal, and then in a hard, dry voice began to
read the will. I listened with languid interest until presently Mr.
Winthrop's name was mentioned. I looked at him with keen surprise. Could
it be possible Mrs. Le Grande had willed him the bulk of her fortune? His
face was pale, I could see no trace of a satisfaction one might naturally
expect on the face of another at such unexpected accession of wealth;
rather he looked grieved and shocked. Before I had time to recover myself
my own name was read off in the even, unimpassioned tones of the lawyer.
She left me her jewelry, pictures, and other valuables. It seemed like
one of the fairy tales of my childhood. There was something pathetic,
too, in the wording of her will: "I hope they will adorn a happier woman
than I have been," as if that, too, were a legacy she bequeathed me.
The formality of reading the will ended, Mr. Winthrop asked for an
immediate and private interview with the lawyer. Afterward I learned it
was to see if some informality could not be discovered, rendering the
will illegal, but this was impossible. He took the money as a sacred
trust, expending the interest year by year on religious and benevolent
objects. Into many a heathen household has it already carried the blessed
light of the gospel--to many a burdened heart has it come to lighten the
load of poverty and care.
The story of one memorable year of my life is told. It was the prelude to
many a happier year.
End of Project Gutenberg's Medoline Selwyn's Work, by Mrs. J. J. Colter