ELLA.
Very pleasantly to Dora did the remainder of the winter pass away. She
was appreciated at last, and nothing could exceed the kindness of both
Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, the latter of whom treated her more like a
sister than a servant, while even Eugenia, who came often to Rose Hill,
and whose fawning manner had partially restored her to the good opinion
of the fickle Ella, tried to treat her with a show of affection, when
she saw how much she was respected. Regularly each day Dora went to the
handsome library where she recited her lessons to Mr. Hastings, who
became deeply interested in watching the development of her fine
intellectual mind.
One thing, however, troubled her. Ella did not improve, and never since
Dora came to Rose Hill had she sat up more than an hour, but lay all
day on her bed, while her face grew white almost as the wintry snow,
save when a bright red spot burned upon her cheeks, making her, as Dora
thought, even more beautiful than she had been in health. Once in the
gathering twilight, when they sat together alone, she startled Dora
with the question, "Is everybody afraid to die?"
"Mother was not," answered Dora, and Ella continued, "But she was good,
and I am not. I have never done a worthy act in all my life. Never
thought of _death_, or even looked upon it, for mother told us there
was no need of harrowing up our feelings--it would come soon enough,
she said; and to me, who hoped to live so long, it has come _too
soon_--all too soon;" and the hot tears rained through the transparent
fingers, clasped so convulsively over her face.
For many weeks Dora had felt an undefined presentiment of coming
evil--had seen it in Ella's failing health--in the increased tenderness
of Mr. Hastings's manner, whenever he bent over the pillow of his young
wife, or bore her in his arms, as he sometimes did, to the window, that
she might look out upon, the garden, and the winding walks which she
would never tread again. And now Ella herself had confirmed it--had
spoken of death as something very near.
"Oh, she must not die!" was Dora's mental cry of anguish, as moving
nearer to the bedside she grasped the little wasted hand which lay
outside the counterpane, and this was her only answer, for she could
not speak. There was a numbness at her heart, a choking sensation in
her throat, which prevented her utterance. But Ella understood her, and
returning the warm pressure, she continued, "You, too, have seen it
then, and know that I must die; but oh! you do not know how I dread the
lonesome darkness of the grave, or the world which lies beyond. If
somebody would go with me, or teach me the way, it wouldn't be so hard."
Poor Ella! Her life had been one round of fashionable folly, and now
that the world was fading from her view, her fainting soul cried out
for light to guide her through the shadowy valley her feet were soon to
tread. And light came at last, through the word of God and the
teachings of the faithful clergyman, who was sent for at her request,
and who came daily up to see her. There was no more fear now--no more
terror of the narrow tomb, for there was _One_ to go with her--one
whose arm was powerful to save; and on Him Ella learned to lean,
clinging still with an undying love to her husband, with whom she often
talked of the time when he would be alone and she be far away.
"It is so hard to give you up," she said one day, when as usual he was
sitting by her side; "so hard to say good-by forever, and know that
though you will miss me at first, and mourn for me too, there _will_
come a time when another will take my place--another than Ella can call
you hers; but I am willing," she continued, as she saw him about to
speak, "willing that it should be so. I have loved you, Howard, more
than you can know, or I can ever tell; but I am not worthy of you. I do
not satisfy the higher feelings of your heart; I am not what _your_
wife should be, and for this I must die. Many a night, when you were
sleeping at my side, have I lain awake, asking myself why _I_, to whom
the world was so beautiful and bright, must leave it so soon; and as I
thought over the events of our short married life, the answer came to
me, 'I cannot make you happy as you ought to be, and for your sake I am
taken away.'"
"Oh, Ella, Ella!" groaned Mr. Hastings, laying his head beside hers,
upon the pillow.
From his inmost soul he knew that what she said was true; but for this
he would not that she should die. She had been to him a gentle, loving
wife, the one he had chosen from all others to share his home; and
though he had failed to find in her the companion he had sought, she
was very dear to him--was the mother of his child; and the strong man's
heart was full of anguish as he thought of giving her up so soon. Who
would comfort him when she was gone or speak to him words of love?
Softly the chamber door unclosed, and Dora Deane looked in; but seeing
them thus together she stole away into the garden, where the early
spring grass was just starting into life, and there, weeping bitterly,
she too prayed that Ella might not die. But neither tears nor prayers
were of avail to save her. Still for weeks she lingered, and the soft
June air, stealing in through the open window, had more than once
lifted the golden curls from off her fading brow, and more than one
bouquet of sweet wild blossoms had been laid upon her pillow, ere the
midnight hour, when, with anguish at their hearts, Howard Hastings and
Dora Deane watched together by her side, and knew that she was dying.
There had been long, dreary nights of wakefulness, and the worn-out
sufferer had asked at last that she might die--might sleep the
dreamless sleep from which she would never waken. And Howard Hastings,
as night after night went by, and the laughing blue eyes which had won
his early love grew dim with constant waking, had felt that it would be
better when his loved one was at rest. But death, however long
expected, is sudden at the last, and so it was to him, when he saw the
shadow creeping over her face, which cometh once to all. She would not
suffer them to rouse the household, she would rather die with them
alone, she said, with Dora standing near, and her husband's arms about
her so that the tones of his voice should be the last sound which would
fall upon her ear, and Dora's hand the last to minister to her wants.
"I have loved you so much, Howard, oh, so much!" and the white clammy
fingers, so soon to be laid away beneath the summer flowers, strayed
lovingly through the raven locks of her husband, who could answer only
with his tears, which fell fast upon her face. "And you too, Dora," she
continued, motioning the weeping girl to advance, "I have loved you
too, for you have been kind to me, and when I am gone, you will live
here still and care for my child, whom we have called _Fannie_. It is a
beautiful name, Dora--your mother's name, and for your sake, I would
fain let her keep it--but," turning to Mr. Hastings, and laying her
hand caressingly upon his head, "when I no longer live, I would rather
you should call my baby _Ella Grey;_ and if my husband"--here she
paused to gather strength for what she was about to say, and after a
moment continued, "if, in coming years, another sits beside you in my
chair, and the voices of other children shall call you father, you will
not forget your first-born, I know, but will love her better, and
think, perchance, the oftener of me, if she bears my name, for,
however, truly you may hereafter love, it was Ella Grey that won your
first affection."
Again she paused, and there was no sound heard in the chamber of death,
save the sobs of those about to be bereaved, and the faint rustling of
the leaves without, which were gently moved by the night wind.
"Bring me my baby," she said at last; and Dora laid the sleeping child
in the arms of the young mother, who, clasping it fondly to her bosom,
breathed over it a dying mother's blessing, and with a dying mother's
tears baptized it Ella Grey.
There was a long, deep silence then, and when at last Howard Hastings
lifted up his head from the pillow where it had been resting, and Dora
Deane came timidly to his side, they gazed together on the face of the
sweetly sleeping dead.
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