FOLDING THE ROBES ABOUT HER.
It was the sabbath and a very lovely day. The sun never shone more
brightly in the heavens; and as Margaret Cooper surveyed its mellow
orange light, lying, like some blessed spirit, at sleep upon the hills
around her, and reflected that she was about to behold it for the last
time, her sense of its exceeding beauty became more strong than ever.
Now that she was about to lose it for ever, it seemed more beautiful
than it had ever been before.
This is a natural effect, which the affections confer upon the objects
which delight and employ them. Even a temporary privation increases the
loveliness of the external nature. How we linger and look. That shade
seems so inviting; that old oak so venerable! That rock--how often have
we sat upon it, evening and morning, and mused strange, wild, sweet
fancies! It is an effort to tear one's self away--it is almost like
tearing away from life itself; so many living affections feel the
rending and the straining--so many fibres that have their roots in the
heart, are torn and lacerated by the separation.
Poor Margaret! she looked from her window upon the bright and beautiful
world around her. Strange that sorrow should dwell in a world so bright
and beautiful! Stranger still, that, dwelling in such a world, it should
not dwell there by sufferance only and constraint! that it should have
such sway--such privilege. That it should invade every sanctuary and
leave no home secure. Ah! but the difference between mere sorrow and
guilt! Poor Margaret could not well understand that! If she could--but
no! She was yet to learn that the sorrows of the innocent have a healing
effect. That they produce a holy and ennobling strength, and a juster
appreciation of those evening shades of life which render the lights
valuable and make their uses pure. It is only guilt which finds life
loathsome. It is only guilt that sorrow weakens and enslaves. Virtue
grows strong beneath the pressure of her enemies, and with such a power
as was fabled of the king of Pontus, turns the most poisonous fruits of
earth into the most wholesome food.
But, even in the heart of Margaret Cooper, where the sense of the
beautiful was strong, the loveliness of the scene was felt. She drank
in, with strange satisfaction--a satisfaction to which she had long
been a stranger--its soft and inviting beauties. They did not lessen her
sense of suffering, perhaps, but they were not without their effect in
producing other moods, which, once taken in company with the darker ones
of the soul, may, in time, succeed in alleviating them. Never, indeed,
had the prospect been more calm and wooing. Silence, bending from the
hills, seemed to brood above the valley even as some mighty spirit,
at whose bidding strife was hushed, and peace became the acknowledged
divinity of all. The humming voices of trade and merriment were all
hushed in homage to the holy day; and if the fitful song of a truant
bird, that presumed beside the window of Margaret Cooper, did break the
silence of the scene, it certainly did not disturb its calm. The forest
minstrel sung in a neighboring tree, and she half listened to his lay.
The strain seemed to sympathize with her sadness. She thought upon her
own songs, which had been of such a proud spirit; and how strange and
startling seemed the idea that with her, song would soon cease for ever.
The song of the bird would be silent in her ears, and her own song! What
song would be hers? What strain would she take up? In what abode--before
what altars?
This train of thought, which was not entirely lost, however, was broken,
for the time, by a very natural circumstance. A troop of the village
damsels came in sight, on their way to church. She forgot the song of
birds, as her morbid spirit suggested to her the probable subject of
their meditations.
“They have seen me,” she muttered to herself as she hastily darted from
the window. “Ay, they exult. They point to me--me, the abandoned--the
desolate--soon to be the disgraced! But, no! no! that shall never
be. They shall never have that triumph, which is always so grateful a
subject of regale to the mean and envious!”
The voice of her mother from below disturbed these unhappy meditations.
The old lady was prepared for church, and was surprised to find that
Margaret had not made her toilet.
“What! don't you mean to go, Margaret?”
“Not to-day, mother.”
“What, and the new preacher too, that takes the place of John Cross!
They say he makes a most heavenly prayer.”
But the inducement of the heavenly prayer of the new preacher was not
enough for Margaret. The very suggestion of a new preacher would have
been conclusive against her compliance. The good old lady was too eager
herself to get under way to waste much time in exhortation, and hurrying
off, she scarcely gave herself time to answer the inquiry of the widow
Thackeray, at her own door, after the daughter's health.
“I will go in and see her,” said the lighthearted but truehearted woman.
“Do, do, ma'am---if you please! She'll be glad to see you. I'll hurry
on, as I see Mrs. Hinkley just ahead.”
The widow Thackeray looked after her with a smile, which was exchanged
for another of different character when she found herself in the chamber
of Margaret. She put her arms about the waist of the sufferer; kissed
her cheeks, and with the tenderest solicitude spoke of her health and
comfort. To her, alone, with the exception of her mother--according to
the belief of Margaret--her true situation had been made known.
“Alas!” said she, “how should I feel--how should I be! You should know.
I am as one cursed--doomed, hopeless of anything but death.”
“Ah! do not speak of death, Margaret,” said the other kindly. “We must
all die, I know, but that does not reconcile me any more to the thought.
It brings always a creeping horror through my veins. Think of life--talk
of life only.”
“They say that death is life.”
“So it is, I believe, Margaret; and now I think of it, dress yourself
and go to church where we may hear something on this subject to make us
wiser and better. Come, my dear--let us go to God.”
“I can not--not to-day, dear Mrs. Thackeray.”
“Ah, Margaret, why not? It is to the church, of all places, you should
now go.”
“What! to be stared at? To see the finger of scorn pointing at me
wherever I turn? To hear the whispered insinuation? To be conscious only
of sneer and sarcasm on every hand? No, no, dear Mrs. Thackeray, I can
not go for this. Feeling this, I should neither pray for myself, nor
find benefit from the prayers of others. Nay, THEY would not pray. They
would only mock.”
“Margaret, these thoughts are very sinful.”
“So they are, but I can not think of any better. They can not but be
sinful since they are mine.”
“But you are not wedded to sin, dearest. Such thoughts can give you no
pleasure. Come with me to church! Come and pray! Prayer will do you
good.”
“I would rather pray here. Let me remain. I will try to go out among the
hills when you are all engaged in church, and will pray there. Indeed I
must. I must pray then and pray there, if prayer is ever to do me good.”
“The church is the better place, Margaret. One prays better where one
sees that all are praying.”
“But when I KNOW that they are not praying! When I know that envy is in
their hearts, and malice, and jealousy and suspicion--that God is not in
their hearts, but their fellow; and not him with friendly and fond, but
with spiteful and deceitful thoughts!”
“Ah! Margaret, how can you know this? Judge not lest ye be judged.”
“It matters not, dear Mrs. Thackeray. God is here, or there. He will be
among the hills if anywhere. I will seek him there. If I can command my
thoughts anywhere, it will be in the woods alone. In the church I can
not. Those who hate me are there--and their looks of hate would only
move my scorn and defiance.”
“Margaret, you do our people wrong. You do yourself wrong. None hate
you--none will point to you, or think of your misfortune; and if they
did, it is only what you might expect, and what you must learn patiently
to bear, as a part of the punishment which God inflicts on sin. You must
submit, Margaret, to the shame as you have submitted to the sin. It is
by submission only that you can be made strong. The burden which you are
prepared to bear meekly, becomes light to the willing spirit. Come, dear
Margaret, I will keep with you, sit by you--show you, and all, that I
forget your sin and remember only your suffering.”
The good widow spoke with the kindest tones. She threw her arms around
the neck of the desolate one, and kissed her with the affection of a
sister. But the demon of pride was uppermost. She withstood entreaty and
embrace.
“I can not go with you. I thank you, truly thank you, dear Mrs.
Thackeray, but I can not go. I have neither the courage nor the
strength.”
“They will come--the courage and the strength--only try. God is watchful
to give us help the moment he sees that we really seek his assistance.
By prayer, Margaret--”
“I will pray, but I must pray alone. Among the hills I will pray. My
prayer will not be less acceptable offered among his hills. My voice
will not remain unheard, though no chorus swells its appeal.”
“Margaret, this is pride.”
“Perhaps!”
“Ah! go with me, and pray for humility.”
“My prayer would rather be for death.”
“Say not so, Margaret--this is impiety.”
“Ay, death!--the peace, the quiet of the grave--of a long sleep--an
endless sleep--where the vulture may no longer gnaw the heart, nor the
fire burn within the brain! For these I must pray.”
And, thus speaking, the unhappy woman smote her throbbing head with
violent hand.
“Shocking thought! But you do not believe in such a sleep? Surely,
Margaret, you believe in life eternal?”
“Would I did not!”
“O Margaret!--but you are sick; you are very feverish. Your eyeballs
glare like coals of fire; your face seems charged with blood. I am
afraid you are going to have another attack, like the last.”
“Be not afraid. I have no such fear.”
“I will sit with you, at least,” said the kind-hearted woman.
“Nay, that I must positively forbid, Mrs. Thackeray; I will not suffer
it. I will not sit with YOU. Go you to church. You will be late. Do not
waste your time on me. I mean to ramble among the hills this morning.
THAT, I think, will do me more good than anything else. There, I am
sure--there only--I will find peace.”
The worthy widow shook her head doubtfully.
“But I am sure of it,” said Margaret. “You will see. Peace, peace--the
repose of the heart--the slumber of the brain!--I shall find all there!”
Mrs. Thackeray, finding her inflexible, rose to depart, but with some
irresoluteness.
“If you would let me walk with you, Margaret--”
“No! no!--dear Mrs. Thackeray--I thank you very much; but, with a mood
such as mine, I shall be much better alone.”
“Well, if you are resolved--”
“I am resolved! never more so.”
These words were spoken in tones which might have startled a suspicious
mind. But the widow was none.
“God bless you!” she said, kissing her at parting. “I will see you when
I come from church.”
“Will you?” said Margaret, with a significant but sad smile. Then,
suddenly rising, she exclaimed:--
“Let me kiss you, dear Mrs. Thackeray, and thank you again, before you
go. You have been very kind to me, very kind, and you have my thanks and
gratitude.”
Mrs. Thackeray was touched by her manner. This was the first time
that the proud spirit of Margaret Cooper had ever offered such an
acknowledgment. It was one that the gentle and unremitting kindnesses
of the widow amply deserved. After renewing her promise to call on her
return from church, Mrs. Thackeray took her departure.
Margaret Cooper was once more alone. When she heard the outer door shut,
she then threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to the utterance of
those emotions which, long restrained, had rendered her mind a terrible
anarchy. A few tears, but very few, were wrung from her eyes; but she
groaned audibly, and a rapid succession of shivering-fits passed through
her frame, racking the whole nervous system, until she scarcely found
herself able to rise from the couch where she had thrown herself. A
strong, determined will alone moved her, and she rose, after a lapse of
half an hour, to the further prosecution of her purpose. Her temporary
weakness and suffering of frame had no effect upon her resolves. She
rather seemed to be strengthened in them. This strength enabled her to
sit down and dictate a letter to her mother, declaring her intention,
and justifying it by such arguments as were presented by the ingenious
demon who assists always in the councils of the erring heart.
She placed this letter in her bosom, that it might be found upon her
person. It was curious to observe, next, that she proceeded to tasks
which were scarcely in unison with the dreadful deed she meditated. She
put her chamber in nice order. Her books, of which she had a tolerably
handsome collection for a private library in our forest-country, she
arranged and properly classed upon their shelves. Then she made her
toilet with unusual care. It was for the last time. She gazed upon the
mirror, and beheld her own beauties with a shudder.
“Ah!” she thought, though she gave no expression to the thought, “to be
so beautiful, yet fail!”
It was a reflection to touch any heart with sorrow. Her dress was of
plain white; she wore no ornament--not even a riband. Her hair, which
was beautifully long and thick, was disposed in a clubbed mass upon her
head, very simply but with particular neatness; and, when all was done,
concealing the weapon of death beneath a shawl which she wrapped around
her, she left the house, and stole away unobserved along the hills, in
the seclusion and sacred silence of which she sought to avoid the evil
consequences of one crime by the commission of another far more heinous.