WHERE I MIGHT FIND HIM
"Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt,
Nothing's so hard but search will find it out."
--Herrick.
During several months of loneliness and sorrow a great change had been
taking place in the mind of the patient sufferer, of which she was only
vaguely conscious.
Purposes are often formed in the depths of our souls, of which we know
nothing until they suddenly emerge into full view. Such a purpose had
been slowly evolving in the heart of Pepeeta.
The strain which she had been undergoing began at last to exhaust her
physically.
Her vital force became depleted, her step grew feeble, the light died
out of her eyes, she drooped and crept feebly about her room. The
determination which she had so resolutely maintained to live apart from
her guilty lover slowly ebbed away. She was, after all, a woman, not a
disembodied spirit, and her woman's heart yearned unquenchably for the
touch of her lover's hand, for the kisses of his lips, for the comfort
of his presence.
This longing increased with every passing hour. Fatigue, weariness,
loneliness, steadily undermined her still struggling resistance to those
hungerings which never left her, till at last, when the failing
resources of her nature were at their lowest point, all her remaining
strength was concentrated into a single passionate desire to look once
more upon the face which glowed forever before her inner eye, or at
least to discover what had befallen the wanderer in his sin and
wretchedness.
Slowly the diffused longing crystallized into a fixed purpose, to resist
which was beyond her power. Having nobly conquered temptation while she
had strength, and yielded only when her physical nature itself was
exhausted, she gathered up the few possessions she had accumulated, sold
them for what they would bring, and, with a heart palpitating wildly,
broke every tie she had formed with the life around her and turned her
face toward the little village where her happiness and sorrows had
begun.
It was a long and tedious journey from New Orleans to Cincinnati in
those days, and it told terribly upon the weakened constitution of the
wayfarer. Her heart beat too violently in her bosom; a fierce fever
began to burn in her veins; she trembled with terror lest her strength
fail her before she reached her journey's end. It was not of Death
himself that she was afraid; but that he should overtake her before she
had seen her lover!
Husbanding her strength as shipwrecked sailors save their bread and
water, she counted the days and the miles to the journey's end, and
having arrived at the wharf of the Queen City, the pale young traveler
who had excited the compassion of the passengers, but who would neither
communicate the secret of her sorrow nor accept of any aid, took her
little bundle in her thin hand and started off on the last stage of her
weary pilgrimage. It was the hardest of all, for her money was exhausted
and there was nothing for her to do but walk.
It was a cold December day. Gray clouds lowered, wintry winds began to
moan, and she had proceeded but a little way when light flakes of snow
began to fall. The chill penetrated her thin clothing and shook her
fragile form. She moved more like a wraith than a living woman. Her
tired feet left such slight impressions in the snow that the feathery
flakes obliterated one almost before she had made another, and she was
haunted by the thought that every trace of her passage through life was
thus to disappear!
Ignorant of the distance or the exact direction, and stopping
occasionally to inquire the way, she plodded on, the exhaustion of
hunger and weariness becoming more and more unendurable. All that she
did now was done by the sheer force of will; but yield she would not.
She would die cheerfully when she had attained her object, but not
before. The winds became more wild and boisterous; they loosened and
tossed her black hair about her wan face; they beat against her person
and drove her back. Every step seemed the last one possible; but
suddenly, just as she descended the slope of a steep hill, she saw the
twinkling lights of the village and the feeble rays shot new courage
into her heart. Under this accession of power she pushed forward and
made her way toward the old Quaker homestead.
The night had now deepened around her; but every foot of the landscape
had been indelibly impressed upon her memory, and even in the gathering
gloom she chose the road unerringly. There were only a few steps more,
and reeling toward the door yard fence she felt her way to the gate,
opened it, staggered forward up the path in the rays of light that
struggled out into the darkness, and with one final effort fell fainting
upon the threshold.
The scene within the house presented a striking contrast to that
without. In a great open fireplace the flames of the beech logs were
wavering up the chimney. Seated in the radiance of their light, on a low
stool, was a young boy with his elbows upon his knees and his cheeks in
the palms of his hands. His mother sat by his side stroking his hair and
gazing at him in fond, brooding love. The father was bending over a
Bible lying open on the table; it was the hour of prayer. He was reading
a lesson from the twenty-fifth chapter of St. Matthew, and had just
articulated in slow and reverent tones the words of Jesus, "I was a
stranger and ye took me in," when they heard a sound at the door.
Father, mother and son sprang to their feet and, hurrying towards the
door, flung it open and beheld a woman's limp form lying on the
threshold.
It was but a child's weight to the stalwart Quaker who picked it up in
his great arms and carried it into the radiance of the great fireplace,
and in an instant he and Dorothea his wife were pushing forward the work
of restoration. They forced a cordial between the parted lips, chafed
the white hands, warmed the half-frozen feet, and in a few moments were
rewarded by discovering feeble signs of life. The color came back in a
faint glow to the marble face, the pulses fluttered feebly, the bosom
heaved gently, as if the refluent tide of life had surged reluctantly
back, and the tired heart began once more to beat. She had regained her
life but not her consciousness, and lay there as white and almost as
still as death. The little boy stood gazing wonderingly at her from a
distance. The calm features of the Quaker were agitated with emotion.
His wife knelt by the side of the pale sleeper, and her tears dropped
silently on the hand which she pressed to her lips.