HEARTS AND CONSCIENCES AT REST.
The storms of life with her are passed,
Stern memory leaves her soul at rest;
She finds a tranquil home at last,
Content with blessing, to be blessed.
Mrs. Gordon never appeared again in the gay world. The reason was a
mystery that no one could explain. The rich furniture, the statues and
pictures that had made her home a palace, were quietly sold, and the
rooms filled with everything essential to comfort, without the slightest
approach to former profuse luxuriousness. Plain carriages and less
spirited horses, took the place of her former superb equipage. The
grounds still bloomed with flowers, the hot-houses teemed with fruit,
but Ada seldom tasted the one or inhaled the other. She was far too busy
and useful for the indulgence, even of her most harmless love of the
beautiful. She had literally gone out by the wayside and hedges, forcing
the poor to come in and partake of her hospitality. For months Jacob
Strong might have been observed, side by side with his mistress,
threading the alleys, searching in attic chambers, for objects of just
charity. Old men and women, generally of the educated poor, who could
not work, and were too proud for begging, soon became the inmates of
those splendid saloons. Any day, when you passed that mansion, some old
lady in her snow-white cap might be seen looking quietly from the
casement, while others strolled in the gardens, or amused themselves in
the marble vestibule. Occasionally Jacob Strong might be seen loitering
about the door, but all the servants were changed. The very atmosphere
of the place seemed that of another region. No French maids, no liveried
footman, lent a foreign and meretricious air to the dwelling now. In the
place of former splendor, gay tumult and heartless display, reigned a
calm and pure tranquillity. Every face was serene; every being you met
looked soberly content.
In truth, the little paradise--for still the beautiful reigned
throughout that dwelling--did indeed at times seem haunted by an angel;
for flitting about, now in the sunshine of the garden, now in the more
bland sunshine of her mother's smile, Julia grew in beauty and in all
those sweet qualities which are the essence of loveliness. If painful
memories sometimes haunted the maiden--if a prison cell and an old man
blessing her with his last breath--a tumult of people, and wild shouts
that seemed terrible to her, even then, sometimes broke upon her in the
still morning, or the more stilly night, it was but a passing cloud; and
with tears in her eyes, she would thank God, that those who loved that
good old man had been saved the crowning horror of his death.
And the old grandmother--it should have been no cause of grief when the
meek woman went softly to sleep one night and awoke with her husband in
heaven. It was the home she had pined for even when surrounded closest
by her children's love. They laid her by his side in Greenwood, with
many tears, for though certain that happiness awaits the departed, those
who are left must mourn, or they cannot have loved.
Now we have one scene to describe, and our story is done. It was three
years after the death of old Mr. Wilcox, and once more the home of Ada
Leicester was lighted up for guests. The boudoir which we have so often
mentioned was redolent with flowers, and the pure muslin curtains
floated to and fro in the summer air that came balmily through the open
windows. Beyond, was the bed-chamber. You could hear the rustle of light
footsteps on the India matting, and see the gleam of snowy drapery,
waving like a cloud in the distance. All was exquisitely chaste and full
of simplicity. How unlike the gorgeous luxuriousness of those rooms, in
other days!
The rooms filled, not with guests such as had made them brilliant once,
but with persons who may interest the reader far more. The first person
whom Jacob Strong ushered into the boudoir, was his own sister, Mrs.
Gray. Never in her whole life had the good lady appeared so radiantly
happy. Her gown of silver grey silk rustled cheerfully as she walked,
white satin ribbons knotted the lace cap under her chin and floated in
glistening streamers adown the white muslin kerchief folded over her
bosom. A pair of gloves--man's size, but white as snow--were neatly
buttoned about her plump wrists. This, with her beautiful grey hair, her
cheeks softly red like a mellow winter apple, and the double chin that
had taken a triple fold since we last saw her, would have warmed your
heart had you been a guest at that house, as she was. Then there was a
quiet little old lady in black, who glided in like a shadow, and was
completely lost behind the rotundity of Mrs. Gray's person; and another
gentle creature clothed in black also, but of a beauty that made your
heart ache, the sweet face was so touchingly sad, the countenance so
waxen in its whiteness, and every movement was so painfully shy. It
seemed as if the poor young creature might turn and flee, like a
frightened doe, if an unfamiliar eye were turned upon her. Reader, these
two persons are no strangers to you; they are the mother and the victim
of William Leicester. Poor Florence, her mind was shaken yet, but not as
it had been. She was gentle and mournfully sad, but not insane. Still it
was a painful thing to see a creature so young, with that utter
hopelessness of countenance. She sat down close to the little, aged
woman, and looked up in her face, with meek, trusting eyes, holding
shyly to a fold of her dress all the while. Not even the sunny smile of
Mrs. Gray, could win a gleam of joy to those large eyes. Then there was
a large woman with black eyes and an abundance of raven hair, that kept
bustling in and out of the bed-chamber with a look of happy importance,
that made her strong features quite handsome. You would hardly have
recognized the prison woman, in that neatly clad rosy cheeked female,
the expression and whole appearance was so changed. Home and care had
done everything for her, and at this time she was housekeeper in the
mansion. Had you asked her character of the old ladies who found an
asylum there, the account would have astonished you. After all, where
real strength of character exists, there is always hope of reformation.
It is your weak sinner for whom one despairs the most. As this woman
passed through the room, she always turned her eyes, beaming with
fondness, on a little boy, half concealed by the flow of Mrs. Gray's
gown. It was quite wonderful how much that gown could shelter; and the
mother spoke in that glance eloquently as ever love was uttered in
words.
Then there was Jacob Strong himself, with a new coat in its first gloss,
too short for his long arms, and cut after a fashion of his own, which
made him look more round-shouldered and ungainly than ever. A buff vest,
and gloves of a deeper yellow, gave an air of peculiar smartness to his
costume, which bespoke some very important occasion; for it was not
often that Jacob gave way to weaknesses regarding his toilet; and when
he did, the effect was indisputably striking.
Besides the persons we have mentioned, were a score of nice aged women
in snowy caps and chintz dresses, looking the very pictures of contented
old age, who whispered cosily together, and watched a door that led to
the stairs with the greatest interest, as if some very important person
was expected to enter from that way.
Their impatience was gratified at last; for a clergyman with flowing
robes came sweeping through, escorted by Jacob Strong, who had been
wandering about the dim vestibule during the last ten minutes. Directly
after, the room opposite was flung open, and Robert Otis came forth,
leading a fair young girl by the hand. There was something heavenly in
the loveliness of that gentle bride, as the blush deepened and faded
away beneath the gossamer sheen of her veil.
Jacob Strong rubbed his yellow gloves softly together, as he gazed upon
her; and the rustle of Mrs. Gray's dress was absolutely eloquent of all
the restless pride she felt in seeing the two beings she most loved
united for ever.
Of all the persons present, Ada Leicester alone was sad. She remembered
her own marriage, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept across
her face, as the solemn benediction was uttered over her child.
When the ceremony was complete Florence arose, and quietly placing a
folded paper in the lap of the bride, stole away, as if terrified by the
strange eyes that followed her movement. Julia took up the paper, half
unfolded it, and then, with a blush and a smile, placed it in the hand
of her young husband. With that paper Florence had conveyed two thirds
of her fine property to the daughter of William Leicester--the man who
had swept every blossom from the pathway of her own life.
THE END.