CONCLUSION
Three years have passed away, and twice the wintry storms have swept
over the two graves, which, on the prairies of Illinois, were made when
the glorious Indian summer sun was shining o'er the earth, and the
withered leaves of autumn were strewn upon the ground. Stephen and
Eugenia are dead--he, dying as a drunkard dies--she, as a drunkard's
wife. Uncle Nat had been to visit the western world, and on his return
to Rose Hill, there was a softened light in his eye, and a sadness in
the tones of his voice, as, drawing Dora to his side, he whispered, "I
have forgiven her--forgiven Eugenia Deane."
Then he told her how an old man in his wanderings came one day to a
lonely cabin, where a wild-eyed woman was raving in delirium, and
tearing out handfuls of the long black hair which floated over her
shoulders. This she was counting one by one, just as the old East India
man had counted the silken tress which was sent to him over the sea,
and she laughed with maniacal glee as she said the numbering of all her
hairs would atone for the sin she had done. At intervals, too, rocking
to and fro, she sang of the fearful night when she had thought to
_steal_ the auburn locks concealed within the old green trunk; on which
the darkness lay so heavy and so black, that she had turned away in
terror, and glided from the room. In the old man's heart there was much
of bitterness towards that erring woman for the wrong she had done to
him and his, but when he found her thus, when he looked on the new-made
grave beneath the buckeye tree, and felt that she was dying of
starvation and neglect, when he saw how the autumn rains, dripping from
a crevice in the roof, had drenched her scanty pillows through and
through--when he sought in the empty cupboard for food or drink in
vain, his heart softened towards her, and for many weary days he
watched her with the tenderest care, administering to all her wants,
and soothing her in her frenzied moods, as he would a little child, and
when at last a ray of reason shone for a moment on her darkened mind,
and she told him how much she had suffered from the hands of one who
now slept just without the door, and asked him to forgive her ere she
died, he laid upon his bosom her aching head, from which in places the
long hair had been torn, leaving it spotted and bald, and bending
gently over her, he whispered in her ear, "As freely as I hope to be
forgiven of Heaven, so freely forgive I you."
With a look of deep gratitude, the dark eyes glanced at him for a
moment, then closed forever, and he was alone with the dead.
Some women, whose homes were distant two or three miles, had
occasionally shared his vigils, and from many a log cabin the people
gathered themselves together, and made for the departed a grave, and
when the sun was high in the heavens, and not a cloud dimmed the canopy
of blue, they buried her beside her husband, where the prairie flowers
and the tall rank grass would wave above her head.
This was the story he told, and Dora listening to it, wept bitterly
over the ill-fated Eugenia, whose mother and sister never knew exactly
how she died, for Uncle Nathaniel would not tell them, but from the
time of his return from the West his manner towards them was changed,
and when the New Year came round, one hundred golden guineas found
entrance at their door, accompanied with a promise that when the day
returned again, the gift should be repeated.
* * * * *
On the vine-wreathed pillars, and winding walks of Rose Hill, the
softened light of the setting sun is shining. April showers have
wakened to life the fair spring blossoms, whose delicate perfume,
mingling with the evening air, steals through the open casement, and
kisses the bright face of Dora, beautiful now as when she first called
him her husband who sits beside her, and who each day blesses her as
his choicest treasure.
On the balcony without, in a large-armed willow chair, is seated an old
man, and as the fading sunlight falls around him, a bright-haired
little girl, not yet two years of age, climbs upon his knee, and
winding her chubby arms around his neck lisps the name of "Grandpa,"
and the old man, folding her to his bosom, sings to her softly and low
of _another Fannie_, whose eyes of blue were much like those which look
so lovingly into his face. Anon darkness steals over all but the new
moon, "hanging like a silver thread in the western sky," shows us where
Howard Hastings is sitting, still with Dora at his side.
On the balcony, all is silent; the tremulous voice has ceased; the
blue-eyed child no longer listens; old age and infancy sleep sweetly
now together; the song is ended; the story is done.
THE END.