’Twas a cold gray morning; the dawn of such a day as seems to wrap
itself within the shroud of night, hiding the warm sun in its stony
bosom, and to creep through time arrayed in mourning garments for
the departed stars. Aubrey was up by the earliest glimpse of dawn.
Uncertain what to do or where to go, he made a pretence of eating,
sitting in solemn state in the lonely breakfast room, where the
servants glided about in ghostly silence, which was too suggestive for
the overwrought nerves of the master of all that magnificence. Fifty
times he asked the maid for Mrs. Livingston. The woman told him she was
ill,--not alarmingly so; no physician’s services were needed, neither
his own nor another’s. He did not ask to see her, yet with a strange
and morbid curiosity, he kept on questioning how she was, and why
she kept her chamber, until the knowing laugh and sly joke about the
anxiety of bridegrooms over the welfare of brides made the servants’
quarters ring with hilarity. At length, tired of his aimless wandering,
he said he’d go. His valet asked him where. He could not tell. “Pack up
some things.”
“For how long a time, sir?”
“I cannot tell, James.”
“Shall I order the carriage?”
“Anything, something! A horse; yes. I’ll have the swiftest one in the
stable. A valise--no more; no, you need not come. I must be alone.”
In Dianthe’s room the attendants tread noiselessly, and finally leave
her to enjoy her feigned slumber. She waits but the closing of the
door, to spring from her couch with all the seeming energy of life
and health. First she went to the window and flung wide the hangings,
letting in a flood of light upon the pale, worn face reflected in the
mirror. What a wondrous change was there! The long white drapery of
her morning robe fell about her like a shroud, yet, white as it was,
contrasted painfully with the livid ash-hue of her skin. Her arms
were thin and blue, her hands transparent; her sunny hair hung in
long dishevelled, waving masses, the picture of neglect; the sunken,
wan brow, and livid lips, the heavy eyes with deep, black halos round
them--all these made up a ruined temple.
“When he comes he will not know me,” she murmured to herself; then
sighing deeply, turned and paced the room. What she thought of, none
could say. She spoke not; never raised her eyes from off the ground,
nor ceased her dreary walk for two long hours. She sometimes sobbed,
but never shed a tear.
Here we drop the veil. Let no human eye behold the writhings of that
suffering face, the torture of that soul unmoored, and cast upon the
sea of wildest passion, without the pilot, principle, or captain of
all salvation, God, to trust in,--passion, adoration of a human idol,
hereditary traits entirely unbalanced, generous, but fervid impulses,
her only guides. She knew that her spiritual person must survive the
grave, but what that world was where her spirit was fast tending, only
the dread tales of fear and superstition shadowed truth; and now,
when her footsteps were pressing to it, horror and dread dogged every
footprint.
Hour after hour elapsed alone. O, ’twas agony to be alone! She could
not bear it. She would call her maid; but no, her cold, unimpassioned
face would bring no comfort to her aching heart, aching for pity, for
some cheering bosom, where she might sob her ebbing life away. The door
opens,--and O joy! old Aunt Hannah’s arms enfold her. For hours the two
sat in solemn conference, while the servants wondered and speculated
over the presence of the old witch.
At last night fell. “Mother,” murmured the dying girl, raising her
head from off her damp pillow. “A very golden cloud is printed with
the fleecy words of glory. ‘I will return.’” She pointed to the golden
clouds banking the western sky. “O, will our spirits come, like setting
suns, on each tomorrow of eternity?”
For answer, the old woman raised her hand in warning gesture. There
sounded distinct and clear--three loud, yet muffled knocks on the panel
directly above the couch where Dianthe lay.
“’Tis nothing, mother; I’m used to it now,” said the girl with
indifference.
“You say ’tis nuffin’, honey; but yer limbs are quiverin’ wif pain,
and the drops ob agony is on yer po’ white face. You can’t ’ceive me,
chile; yer granny knows de whole circumstance. I seed it all las’
night in my dreams. Vengeance is mine; I will repay. One comes who is
de instrumen’ ob de Lord.” And the old woman muttered and rocked and
whispered.
Whatever was the cause of Mrs. Livingston’s illness, its character
was unusual and alarming. The maid, who was really attached to the
beautiful bride, pleaded to be allowed to send for medical aid in vain.
The causes for her suffering, as stated by Dianthe, were plausible;
but her resolve to have no aid, inflexible. As evening advanced, her
restlessness, and the hideous action of spasmodic pains across her
livid face, became distressing. To all the urgent appeals of her
servants, she simply replied she was waiting for some one. He was
coming soon--very soon and then she would be quite well.
And yet he came not. From couch to door, from door to window, with
eager, listening ear and wistful eyes the poor watcher traversed her
chamber in unavailing expectancy. At length a sudden calm seemed to
steal over her; the incessant restlessness of her wearied frame
yielded to a tranquil, passive air. She lay upon cushions piled high
upon the couch commanding a view of the broad hallways leading to her
apartments. The beams of the newly risen moon bathed every object in
the dim halls. Clear as the vesper bell, sounding across a far distant
lake, strains of delicious music, rising and falling in alternate
cadence of strong martial measure, came floating in waves of sound down
the corridor.
Dianthe and Aunt Hannah and the maid heard the glorious echoes; whilst
in the town the villagers heard the music as of a mighty host. Louder
it grew, first in low and wailing notes, then swelling, pealing
through arch and corridor in mighty diapason, until the very notes of
different instruments rang out as from a vast orchestra. There was
the thunder of the organ, the wild harp’s peal, the aeolian’s sigh,
the trumpet’s peal, and the mournful horn. A thousand soft melodious
flutes, like trickling streams upheld a bird-like treble; whilst ever
and anon the muffled drum with awful beat precise, the rolling kettle
and the crashing cymbals, kept time to sounds like tramping of a vast
but viewless army. Nearer they came. The dull, deep beat of falling
feet--in the hall--up the stairs. Louder it came and louder. Louder
and yet more loud the music swelled to thunder! The unseen mass must
have been the disembodied souls of every age since Time began, so vast
the rush and strong the footfalls. And then the chant of thousands
of voices swelling in rich, majestic choral tones, joined in the
thundering crash. It was the welcome of ancient Ethiopia to her dying
daughter of the royal line.
Upspringing from her couch, as through the air the mighty hallelujah
sounded, Dianthe with frantic gestures and wild distended eyes, cried:
“I see them now! the glorious band! Welcome, great masters of the
world’s first birth! All hail, my royal ancestors--Candace, Semiramis,
Dido, Solomon, David and the great kings of early days, and the great
masters of the world of song. O, what long array of souls divine, lit
with immortal fire from heaven itself! O, let me kneel to thee! And to
thee, too, Beethoven, Mozart, thou sons of song! Divine ones, art thou
come to take me home? Me, thy poor worshipper on earth? O, let me be
thy child in paradise!
The pageant passed, or seemed to pass, from her whose eyes alone of
all the awe-struck listeners, with mortal gaze beheld them. When, at
length, the last vibrating echoes of the music seemed to die away in
utter vacant silence to the terrified attendants, Dianthe still seemed
to listen. Either her ear still drank in the music, or another sound
had caught her attention.
“Hark, hark! ’Tis carriage wheels. Do you not hear them? Now they pass
the railroad at the crossing. Hasten, O hasten! Still they have a long
mile to traverse. O, hasten! They call me home.”
For many minutes she sat rigid and cold as marble. The trembling
maid wept in silent terror and grief, for the gentle bride was a
kind mistress. Old Aunt Hannah, with a fortitude born of despair,
ministered in every possible way to the dying girl. To the great relief
of all, at last, there came to their ears the very distant rumbling
of wheels. Nearer it came--it sounded in the avenue--it paused at the
great entrance, some one alighted--a stir--the sound of voices--then
footsteps--the ascent of footsteps on the stairs. Nearer, nearer
yet; hastily they come, like messengers of speed. They’re upon the
threshold--enter. Then, and not till then, the rigid lady moved. With
one wild scream of joy she rushed forward, and Reuel Briggs clasped her
in his arms.
For a few brief moments, the wretched girl lived an age in heaven. The
presence of that one beloved--this drop of joy sweetened all the bitter
draught and made for her an eternity of compensation. With fond wild
tenderness she gazed upon him, gazed in his anxious eyes until her own
looked in his very soul, and stamped there all the story of her guilt
and remorse. Then winding her cold arms around his neck, she laid her
weary head upon his shoulder and silently as the night passed through
the portals of the land of souls.