OVER THE WATER.
In the loveliest county of Old England stood one of those fine baronial
castles that have outlived the ravages of many a rebellion. It had not
only defied all ordinary causes of decay, but grown beautiful from time,
which loves to make up for its own depredations by the embellishments
which nature is sure to supply as it draws art slowly back to its own
bosom.
In this noble mansion, surrounded by a tenantry that worshipped her, and
retainers who had grown old in those majestic walls, the Countess of
Sefton performed the duties of a station that required no ordinary
ability; and, despite the sufferings which we know of, performed them
well. She was one of those who grow lofty and strong by suffering. Had
that woman thought only of herself, or most frequently of herself, she
would have died broken-hearted, or dwindled down into the sentimental
nothingness to which sorrow often levels a weak mind. But Barbara
Stafford--for we like that name best--strove to forget herself, her
troubles, and her wrongs, in a benevolent effort to serve her
fellow-creatures. She allowed herself no time for useless lamentation,
but gave all her energies and vast wealth for the good of suffering
humanity. Pleasant cottages arose, like enchantment, all over her vast
estates; school-houses reared their modern fronts among the moss-grown
buildings of past times. Wherever industry could be encouraged by
rewards, it was generously fostered. With so many human beings depending
upon her efforts for their advancement in life, she held the sorrows
that always lay heavy at her heart in abeyance, and stilled the
yearnings of a loving nature by constant self-abnegation.
Barbara lived a solitary life so far as intercourse with her peers went.
She neither sought nor greatly avoided the society which would have
crowded around her. Having spent so much of her life abroad, she had few
acquaintances in England, and made none after her return from America.
Twice she received letters from that country, directed in a stiff,
cramped hand, which always left her in a state of depression for days
after she read them. But a gracious calmness would gently sweep these
sad memories away, and she went on steadily with her life, twining hope
into prayer, and waiting God's time for her deliverance.
Barbara loved the stately edifice, which had been repaired and
beautified by her grandmother. Indeed, hers was a nature to love every
thing good and beautiful. Her rooms were full of pictures, statues, and
rare objects collected in her travels. The gardens and broad
pleasure-grounds around her mansion glowed with flowers, which clustered
thickest and brightest beneath the windows of her private apartments.
Sorrow had neither rendered her austere nor indifferent. She loved the
grand old forest-trees which waved in groups upon the lawn, and every
tiny blossom that gemmed the turf at their roots. The pretty birds that
flashed from thicket to tree-bough found a welcome in her heart, heavy
as it was at times. She strove, with Christian fortitude, to replace the
husband and son lost to her, by the gentle beauties of nature; and,
desolated as she was, life had its sunny side even for her.
One morning this noble woman--the more noble that she was so
womanly--sat alone in a little breakfast-room which overlooked a vista
of the park, and nearer yet a flower-garden radiant with June roses and
such sister flowers as link spring to summer. That morning she was weary
and heavy-hearted; her mind wandered far away in spite of herself, and a
strange yearning to look upon the two faces dearest to her in life
seized upon her. She sat gazing out upon the flowers, with unconscious
tears rolling down her cheeks, when a servant knocked at the door, and,
receiving no answer, came in.
"My lady, a note from a gentleman who waits below: two others, with a
lovely young lady, are with him; but he is the only one who asks to see
you."
Barbara reached forth her hand wearily, and took the note thus presented
from the salver. She did not look at the address, but tore the seal
apart, and read one word--William Phipps--all the rest ran together, and
she could distinguish nothing. With her lips apart, and the paper
shaking in her hands, she sat a full minute gazing upon the name without
seeing it. The voice of the servant aroused her.
"My lady, is there an answer?"
"Wait."
The voice in which this one word was uttered scarcely rose above a
whisper. Barbara swept one hand across her forehead again and again,
clearing her confused vision. At last she read--
"I am here, my wife--here, with our son and our old friend
Samuel Parris. Will you receive me? Can you forgive me?
"WILLIAM PHIPPS."
When Barbara Stafford arose, and turned her face toward the servant, it
was so radiant that the man stared at her in amazement; but she gave no
other expression of the ecstasy of joy that swelled even to pain in her
heart.
"Show the gentleman up to this room," she said. "I will see him here."
The servant went out, closing the door after him; and there Barbara
stood, in the centre of the room, with one hand supported by the carved
woodwork of her chair, and the other pressed to her bosom, waiting for
the one blissful moment which would be enough to repay all her sorrows,
all her anguish of suspense. She heard the first sound of his footstep,
and her heart, that had stood still up to that moment, beat fast and
loud. The door opened, and the husband of her youth stood on the
threshold. She could not speak; she did not move--but that look was
enough. His strong arms saved her from falling. Her head was pressed to
his bosom; she felt his kisses on her forehead; but no words were
spoken--a few sobs, a name brokenly uttered, a rain of tears falling
delicious and still, like dew upon thirsty roses--then this man and
woman sat down, hand in hand, looking at each other.
They were no longer young; he found threads of gray in those golden
tresses, and traces of time around the loveliness of her mouth. But what
of that? Those who love each other go out from their youth soul-bound,
and time has no change which does not deepen and sanctify that true
affection which can perish only with the soul's immortality.
After a few moments of this delicious silence Barbara spoke:
"Our son, William; is he here?"
"Yes, my wife, and waiting impatiently. But not yet. Even he must not
break upon our heaven so soon."
Beyond the crowning happiness of these few minutes we will not go.
THE END.
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