The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd.
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.
Summers and winters went by; five years had passed since the family had
been cast on the island; they had watched from the tower almost daily
for a white sail, but none had ever appeared, and yet they always
continued to hope that the day would come, and they struggled within
themselves to be patient and cheerful. Sometimes the thought would take
possession of the mind of each of the ladies, that one or other of them
might die, and how terrible it would be for the one who was left, and
worse still a thousand times, both of them might die and leave Cora; but
neither of them would ever breathe a word which could convey such an
idea to the other; and when such thoughts and feelings oppressed them,
they took the best method of dispelling their anxiety by engaging
themselves in some active occupation. They made a pretty garden for
summer enjoyment out of doors, and another for winter in one of the
large rooms, by filling boxes and chests with earth. They always had
beautiful flowers in their parlor, which was a great source of delight
to Cora, as well as to her guardians. The two guitars which they had
found in the castle, they strung with wire, and managed to have some
music every evening in the twilight; then they had a time set apart,
also in the early part of the evening, which they called Cora's hour.
For that period, they devoted themselves wholly to the recital of such
subjects as were suitable and pleasant to her, and which they varied
every day in the week, weaving each recital into a little story,
sometimes telling from history; at another time, Mrs. Carleton would
compose a story about Virginian life, and Miss Vyvyan would tell one
about foreign countries; but the hour Cora liked best, was the one
devoted to poetry and fairy tales. She was now in her eighth year, and
could read very well; but there were no fairy tales among the numerous
books in the library, so the ladies repeated them from memory. When the
friends had put Cora to bed, they always remained together during the
rest of the evening, working, and reading aloud to each other, making
new dresses for Cora, who grew very fast, or planning some pleasant
surprise for her, and as far as their present position allowed, always
considering the child's future, and in what manner it was their duty to
educate her, so that she might be best prepared to encounter any of the
reverses or changes of condition, which fate brings into the lives of so
many of us.
Louisita had taught the ladies how to poison some of the provisions with
a plant which grew in the woods, and by so doing, and laying the
poisoned food about the ground, they had destroyed nearly all the
wolves, and now wandered about the island where they desired, making
expeditions in search of flowers, or having little picnics for Cora in
the woods, and visiting Ralph's cairn without their former fear. They
had all been spending a long summer afternoon on the beach, the ladies
seated on the rocks between Ralph's cairn and the sea, Mrs. Carleton
working on a dress, that she was making for Louisita, Miss Vyvyan
reading aloud, and Cora filling in the small open spaces in the cairn,
with little stones of her own selecting. The sun had gone behind the
hill on the western side of the castle, when the little party left
Ralph's cairn and strolled along the shore, as they returned homeward,
gathering the beautiful sea-pea blossoms on their way.
"Anna," said Mrs. Carleton, "we have not seen Louisita to-day; shall we
go to the mound and tell her that her dress will be finished in the
morning, perhaps that would please her?"
"I am ready," replied Miss Vyvyan, "to go anywhere you please, Ada; you
always know the right thing to do."
"May I stay a little way off with Anna," said Cora, "not far; I am
afraid of Louisita, but I want to be near you mama, to take care of you.
Don't you think, Anna, that Louisita is very cross," said the child.
"Not now, dear, she has been very gentle and quiet for the last year."
"I remember," the child continued, "a long time ago when I was little
and you were trying to get some milk for me, and she hit you with her
sword, she frightened me so; I was afraid she would kill you."
"She does not carry her sword any longer," said Miss Vyvyan, "and she
does not scold us any more; she would not hurt any one now, your mama
has been so kind to her, and set her such an example of goodness that
she has made her good, too."
They had reached the entrance to the mound; Cora shrank back and clasped
Miss Vyvyan's hand, who led her a few steps on one side.
"What is this," said the child holding in her hand a gold ornament set
with garnets that she had just picked up from a heap of rubbish which
appeared to be sweepings from Louisita's abode.
"That is a fibula, Cora, such as I saw in a museum in Norway."
"Look, Anna, look at these," she continued, gathering up several antique
beads of glass mosaic and a few chess men of amber from the same place.
"Tell me what they are?"
"They all came from Norway," replied Miss Vyvyan, explaining their use
to her.
Mrs. Carleton meanwhile knocked on the broken planks which served for a
floor, and as Louisita did not appear she entered the mound, but soon
came out again, and whispered something to Miss Vyvyan who passed in,
leaving Mrs. Carleton with Cora. On first entering, it was difficult to
distinguish the interior of the place, or any of the numerous objects
that it contained, as the only light came in through the shattered door,
and a small hole on one side of the mound, which evidently served as a
chimney and a window also. After a few seconds, when Miss Vyvyan's eyes
became accustomed to the extremely subdued light, she saw that she was
in a place that was four or five hundred feet in circumference and about
twenty-four feet high. Advancing toward the side on which the hole was
broken, she observed Louisita. A gleam of light fell upon her. She was
kneeling in front of a small structure which formed a table. Her hands
were clasped in the attitude of prayer, and her fixed and glassy eyes
seemed to look up in the direction of a small silver crucifix, which
hung on the wall before her. Her features were set and rigid. The rich
brown Spanish tint had left her face. When Miss Vyvyan looked upon her
she knew that she was dead, and, on laying her hand upon her cold brow,
she concluded that death had taken place many hours previously; perhaps
the night before. She summoned Mrs. Carleton, and bidding Cora sit down
where they could see her from the inside of the mound, the ladies
proceeded to lay Louisita to rest in the same tomb that had so long been
her dwelling. They lifted her on to her bed; they folded the poor, tired
hands of the weary woman, whose life had lingered on through those
lonely, loveless years. They took the silver crucifix from the wall and
laid it upon her breast; for although they were not of her creed, they
respected her devotion. They felt thankful that in her lifetime they
had done all they could to lighten her burden. They felt still more
thankful for her own sake, that her pilgrimage was ended, and that she
had gone to join the babes who were so dear to her mother's heart.
Not finding sufficient boards to close up the entrance securely, the
ladies went to the further end of the place to get some which they saw
there. The pile was very high, and as soon as they took hold of one,
several other boards fell in broken pieces at their feet, revealing the
ribs of an old Norwegian ship, inside of which lay the skeleton of a man
which had been there so long, that it began to crumble to ashes the
moment it was exposed to the air. They turned to leave the ship when
another and much larger fall of boards exposed the skeleton of a horse.
They paused a moment and looked round; they saw that Louisita was not in
error when she had told them that the Norsemen were at one time on the
island, for there was every evidence of the mound being the tomb of a
Viking. Among the bones of the horse lay the remains of a bridle and
saddle of leather and wood, the mountings of which were in bronze and
silver. Near that of the man lay some ring-armor, a shield-buckle, two
stones of a hand-mill for grinding corn, bits for bridles, stirrups,
some gold finger rings and a fibula of the same metal. The ladies passed
quietly out of the tomb, and built up the entrance as well as they could
with stones and earth, across which they drew the vines and brambles
that grew among the spruces close by, so that at the end of the
following summer there was not any trace left of an entrance ever having
been there.
* * * * *
Mrs. Carleton had missed Miss Vyvyan for a longer period of time than
usual one day, and in going in search of her to a part of the castle
which they rarely went into, she found her engaged in making a little
gift to surprise Cora with, and singing in a low tone the following
song:--
WHY?
Oh weary years why come and go
With endless sorrow rife;
And hope's dead dreams why come ye back
To mock my empty life?
Oh destiny, oh bitter fate,
Oh burning tears that start,
Why must the hearts that love the most
Forever dwell apart?
Mrs. Carleton entered the room so gently that Miss Vyvyan was not aware
of her presence until the former was close beside her.
"You look sad, dear Anna; what can I do to cheer you?"
"This is a sad anniversary for me," replied Miss Vyvyan; "but I did not
intend you to know it."
"Let us hope, Anna, that time will give us back some of our former
happiness," said Mrs. Carleton.
"The grave is unrelenting, Ada; it never gives back what it has taken
from us. I will tell you all some day. I cannot talk about the past now;
it would unfit me for being of use to others who have suffered; it
would make me no companion for you and dear Cora; it would be selfish to
intrude my life upon you."
"No, Anna, pray tell me why I sometimes see so sad an expression on your
face which you change the instant you find I am looking at you. You know
you have never alluded to any event in your life prior to our being
shipwrecked. You have told me of your childhood, certainly, but that was
so bright and happy that the recollection of it must be an endless
source of thankfulness. Now I again pray of you, tell me all."
"As you so much wish it, Ada," replied Miss Vyvyan, "I will tell you
that the sunlight went out of my life too soon. At the time I first met
you the world was all darkness to me; all my days and years were winter,
and my only wish was to die."
"Oh Anna, do not say that," said Mrs. Carleton; "but go on and tell me
why."
"Forgive me, I fear I was rebellious, but I only thought of the present.
I could not look forward; it seemed as if there were no future for me
here. I was alone; the only lips which had the right to breathe my name
were sealed in death, and the stately dignity or cold respect with which
I was always addressed reminded me hourly of my isolated existence. I
have no words that can express to you the utter desolation I felt in
having no one to call me by name. I often sought the whispering of the
wind through the trees, the leaves and the long, waving grass in the
hope that it might emit a sound which my fancy could fashion into the
once familiar name, but all in vain; the trees and the leaves and the
grass, even the rocks and hills, whispered and murmured and talked of
many things, but the sound I most longed to hear came never."
Anna noticed that Mrs. Carleton looked sorrowful. She ceased speaking.
"Why did you stop, Anna; go on."
"I am distressing you, I see," answered Miss Vyvyan; "I ought not to
pain you."
"Please go on, Anna."
"I cannot expect you to comprehend my exceeding loneliness at that time,
because your life has never been empty, and you have now your beautiful
child. When first I met you I had nothing. When I say nothing, I do not
mean to infer that I was destitute of worldly means. I had an ample
fortune which I inherited from my mother, besides the manor house and
the landed estates of my grandfather; but I was destitute in the deepest
sense; I had nothing of my own to love; I was alone. Do you know what
that word alone means, 'when hope and the dreams of hope lie dead?' No,
Ada, you cannot, God grant you never may. At length there dawned that
rich, golden autumn day, when you named Cora, and gave me the right to
say 'My.' The surprise was so great to me that I scarcely knew whether I
was moving about in a dream, for my existence had been so long void of
interest that I deemed happiness for me dead. But when I took Cora in
my arms, and looked into the wondrous eyes, and saw the love, the
purity and the delicate sensibility of the being to whom I could always
in the future say 'My,' a new world and a new existence seemed before
me, and I thought angel voices thus whispered and said, 'We have brought
this beautiful child into your life to dwell forever as a sweet, fair
flower in the garden of your heart.' And as the child grew and talked
and called me by my name, the music of its voice and footstep gladdened
my soul and sent a thrill of joy through my whole being. Ever since the
day of our shipwreck, when you were lying on the beach so near death
that I did not dare to allow myself to believe that you could live, (and
may I say it, Ada, without seeming vain), when I was made the instrument
to call you back to life. Ever since that day until this, you and Cora
have seemed to belong to me; to be mine to love and live for. So you see
you have brought back the sunshine into my life. I have finished; I
shall never again talk in this way. My study shall be to brighten, not
to sadden, the path which lies before you in the future."
Anna Vyvyan kept her promise to the end.