Ellen Morris accepted an invitation to Petersburg, ere the angry pique,
aroused by Lynn's reproaches, passed off. The promise was hardly given,
when she would have revoked it, had not pride held her to her word.
Her friends were solicitous, that the far-famed hospitality of their
city should not seem to the Richmond beauty, to have been vaunted too
highly; and she appreciated their efforts; but the fortnight she had
named as the period of her stay, crept slowly by. She hoped confidently
to see her lover again at her feet, when the heat of passion was
over; yet she was wretched in the recollection of her trifling, and
the misery it had inflicted upon his high-toned spirit. Twice she
prepared to write to him, and end a suspense torturing to both,--and
twice dashed down the pen in shame and pride. The wished-for hour of
departure arrived. The morning was bleak; the snow had ceased falling,
but the clouds were low and threatening. Her entertainers begged her to
wait but a day longer.
"If it were a matter of life and death, you could not be more
obstinate," said her hostess, fretted at her unreasonableness.
"And how do you know that it is not?" answered she, jestingly.
"It is no joking matter, Miss Ellen," said a young man, gravely. "They
have not cleared the snow from the track as it ought to be done. You
would feel badly to have your neck broken."
"That is a trifle compared with a broken heart;" and she laughed
lightly.
The train started, and the shivering passengers resigned themselves to
a comfortless ride. Ellen's escort, an elderly gentleman, lost no time
in settling his chin and ears down in the collar of his great coat, and
the rest of his body in a corner, to sleep. She was wide-awake; and
her spirits, raised by the near prospect of the meeting, her hopes had
fed upon, for weary days and nights, found amusement in the uncouth
figures, seen by the struggling light. She did not suffer from the cold
or damp; her pulses bounded warmly; and when tired of being a solitary
looker-on, she closed her eyes, and beguiled the time by fancies of
home and _him_; whether he too were repentant; if he did not show it,
rather than lose him, she could humble herself to lure him back;--she
could not be happy without the assurance of his love. She would tell
him how miserable their parting had made her; and imagination revelled
in the anticipation of the refreshing flood, her thirsting heart would
receive in return. There were pictures of days, which should fleet
by like a dream;--when doubts and fears should be lost in perfect
beatitude; the dingy, smoky cars were metamorphosed into their cottage
home, with its music and flowers and birds, and its atmosphere of
love;--and the votaries of his divine art thronged to offer incense to
him--her peerless one!
The halting of the laboring engine startled her. The drowsy travellers
gathered themselves up; and elbowing and grumbling, rushed out. She
lifted the window. They were at the Depot. Half-frozen officials
stamped their toes and blew their fingers; hackmen swore at their
horses and the porters;--now and then, a pair of watery eyes peered
into the cars, in quest of some expected one; but the form she looked
for was not there. "Pshaw! how could he know when she was coming? how
silly not to recollect this!"
"There is no one here to meet you, Miss Ellen," said her companion,
re-entering.
"I hardly expected it, sir; if you will be so kind as to get a carriage
for me, I will not trouble you further."
Her smile thawed the old man's churlishness. He volunteered, his foot
upon the step "to see her all the way home;" but she would not consent.
"I am not afraid; this kind 'uncle' will carry me safely."
The driver scraped and grinned, although his woolly whiskers were hoary
with rime. "Pity _all_ women can't be agreeable!" said the escort,
trudging through the drifts, to his hack. That a gentleman of his
temperament was ever otherwise, even on a raw morning, did not occur to
him.
An omnibus blocked up the street;--Ellen's carriage was behind it, and
the driver's objurgative eloquence retarded, instead of quickening the
movements of its proprietor, who was stowing away baggage upon the
roof.
"Hallo!" cried a young man, to another, who was knocking the snow from
his boots against the curb-stone. "When did you get in?"
"Just now. Horrid weather for March!--isn't it? Any news going?"
"Not a bit--all frozen up--ah! yes! Lynn Holmes is dead."
"What! not the artist! when did it happen? I saw him on the street a
week ago--another duel?"
"No--lung fever. He died night before last, after forty-eight hours'
illness."
"Shocking!"
"Ellen! you are white as a sheet!" was Mrs. Morris' greeting. "My dear
child--are you sick?"
"No ma'am--only cold--oh! _so_ cold!"
"Come to the fire."
"I think I will lie down awhile--I am chilled to the heart!"
The servant, who carried her breakfast, reported her asleep, and the
careful mother would not let them waken her. Later in the day, she took
a cup of hot coffee up to her. She was motionless; her head covered.
"My daughter!" said Mrs. Morris, softly, drawing down the coverlet.
She looked at her, but did not speak.
"How do you feel now?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"You are not quite awake yet, I believe," said her mother, smiling.
"Here, drink this--it will do you good."
She took it.
"By the way, my dear," continued Mrs Morris, busying herself with the
folds of a curtain, which did not hang to suit her. "I have melancholy
news for you. Our friend, Mr. Holmes, died suddenly, night before last.
I never was more astonished and grieved in my life. He was such a
handsome, promising young man, and so attached to us! I said directly
how sorry you would be to hear it. You were so much together--where
are the pins? oh! here they are! His disease was a rapid inflammation
of the lungs. The funeral will take place at the church this
afternoon;--some of us must go, if the weather _is_ bad. Do you think
you will be well enough?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Well--I hope so; and now I will go down and keep the children still,
so that you can sleep."
The thunder of a thousand cannon would not have disturbed her. She
heard and saw all that passed; but in place of heart and sense, was a
dead vacuity, empty and soundless, although it had engulphed thought
and feeling. She went to the funeral. Prudent, appearance-loving
Mrs. Morris, dexterously flung a veil before the stony eyes, whose
tearlessness people might observe, and wonder aloud, as she did
mentally, at "Ellen's want of feeling;" but her daughter quietly
raised it. The church was crowded. The untimely end of one so gifted
and popular, thrilled the community, as the breast of one man. All was
as still as the grave; the roar of the busy city-life deadened by the
heavy atmosphere and cushioned earth. The wail of a clarion stirred
the air;--nearer and nearer it sounded; and the plaintive breathing
of other instruments; and at long intervals, a single roll of the
drum;--nearer and nearer--they ceased, and the procession moved up the
aisle. First walked Charles Dana and his sister-in-law, clad in deep
mourning as for a brother; then Morton Lacy, pale and sorrowful, and
on his arm another black-robed figure, (such privilege had Friendship
above Love!) then a small band of fellow-artists; and the coffin! borne
and followed by the Masonic fraternity, of which he was a member. It
was set down in front of the pulpit; "the Book," with its drapery of
black crape, laid reverently upon it; and the service proceeded. There
were prayers and hymns and a sermon; she heard none;--the coffin lay
in her sight--_his_ coffin! It was _not!_ Where then was the vigorous
life which moved the still form within it? where the soul of splendid
imaginings and lofty aspirations? where the heart, with its wealth of
feeling? they could not die! He lived still--and living, loved her.
That narrow coffin was a horrible mockery. And so, when the cover was
removed, and those, who from curiosity or affection, desired to look
for the last time upon his face, filed slowly by it, she arose too.
He was there! royally beautiful, even in his prison-house; the rich
black locks swept back from the marble temples; and a smile resting
upon the lips. Oh! what power bears woman up in a moment like this!
Her life--her world was shut in with the replacing of that lid;
but she saw each screw returned to its place, without a tear or a
shudder;--herself, proposed to her mother, that they should follow the
corpse to its home; and watched them heap the snow and clods upon it.
And through that and many succeeding nights, she stood in the attic,
in cold and darkness, straining her eyes towards where the gleaming
tomb-stones were visible in the day, and fancying she could tell which
shadowed an unsodded mound.
Charley was his friend's executor. In the fulfilment of his trust,
he found a casket marked--"To be given, at my death, to E.--M." He
thought of sealing it up, and sending it to her with a note from
himself; but decided upon further deliberation, to entrust it to Ida.
It was a painful duty. She was not able yet to speak of Lynn without
distressing emotion. His decease was so sudden, so awful,--snatched, as
he was, from her very side, with the barest intimation of his danger,
after months of intimate intercourse. She mourned for him as sisters
and friends seldom weep. Charley did not command. "She was the more
proper person," he said; "but he would not grieve her by enforcing the
request."
"I cannot meet her!" said she. "He was so dear to us--how can I endure
the sight of her indifference? They say she was calm and careless while
they were burying him."
"Calm--she certainly was; but the glance I had at her face assured me
not careless. I am much mistaken if she was not the greatest sufferer
by that grave. I was angry with her, previously; I believe now that she
merits our compassion."
Yet it was an unwilling heart that Ida carried to the interview. Ellen
sent for her to come to her room. "I am busy, you see," said she, with
the ghost of a smile. Ida held the precious legacy more tightly, as she
noticed her occupation. A ball-dress was spread upon the bed, and she
was fastening roses upon the skirt. Her cheek was white, as Ida glanced
at her own sad-colored dress.
"You are going to the party to-night, then?" said the latter.
"Yes--will Josephine attend?"
"I have not heard her say--have not inquired--have not thought of it."
Despairing of broaching the subject in any other way, she took the
casket from under her shawl, and laid it upon the dress.
"The living forget sooner than the dead, Ellen!" was all she said.
The unhappy girl recoiled at the familiar characters upon the lid, and
stretched out her arms with an imploring cry. Ida reached her as she
fell. She had fainted. Charley's words were verified, and Ida blamed
herself severely for her cruel abruptness. Her tears ran fast, as
she strove to restore consciousness "Oh! Ida--Lynn!" groaned Ellen,
reviving. Reserve, pride, self-control were borne down;--they wept in
each other's arms. With the casket pressed to her bosom, Ellen heard
his last message, and the hopeful words he had spoken of the future, he
was not to know upon earth.
"I did love him! Heaven is my witness--I did love him!" she cried,
anguishedly. "He did not condemn me; but I can never forgive myself! If
I could have seen him once more to tell him so! Dead! oh! that I were
in the grave beside him!"
This was grief without a glimmer of hope. Ida had no word of comfort.
Ellen's eye fell upon the gossamer robe.--she threw it upon the floor,
and trampled it "I hate it! and myself, and everything else! I am a
hypocrite! a lying hypocrite! with my hollow smiles and broken heart.
Leave me! go! or I shall hate _you!_"
Ida left her thus--writhing under the scorpion-lash of remorse, and
rejecting consolation. She met Josephine, a square or two from home,
and upon the door-step, Mr. Lacy. Admitting him, she ran up stairs to
efface the marks of her recent agitation. Her pallor and swollen eyes
remained, however, and did not escape him. He did not begin, as many
would have done, in his place, to speak of topics entirely foreign
to what was in their thoughts; he wished to apply a curative, not an
anodyne.
"Charley tells me you are going to the country, before long;" he said.
"I do not regret it, as I should if I were to stay here myself. After
the first of April, I shall study at home, until autumn. You are to pay
your friend Carry a visit, are you not?"
"Yes."
"She is the 'sister' I have heard so much of?"
"The same--I wish you knew her."
"I think I do. Her cheerful society is what you need. While it is
neither possible, nor desirable to forget that we have been bereaved,
we should beware how we indulge in a luxury of woe. Our duty to those
we have lost, does not oblige us to neglect the friends who are spared
to us."
"Very few remain to me," said Ida, tremulously.
"You are wrong. You may never find one who will fill his place; but
the rest love you the more, that you are afflicted. Charley is a true
brother."
"He is--and of late he is more unreserved, more affectionate than he
used to be; his sympathy is very sweet. I must speak of yourself, also,
Mr. Lacy, although I have no language to thank you for your kindness.
I fear I have been wearisome at times; but you seem to understand why
this was no common bereavement to me."
"So far from being wearied, I am grateful for your confidence. No act
of mine shall cause you to repent it."
"Charley has given me some lines which he thinks were written
recently," said Ida. "They were among some loose sheets in a portfolio
of drawings. I wept over them, but they comforted me. I have been
wishing that you had them. This is a rough copy, you observe; and
probably not read after being penned."
Mr. Lacy's eyes filled, as he read at the top of the page, "11-1/2
P.M., after a visit from M. L."
"ALL IN CHRIST.
Jesus, Saviour! from Thy dwelling,
High all stars and thrones above,
Hear my faltering accents, telling
Of weak faith and smouldering love.
Poor love for Thee, the only worthy--
Dull faith In Thee, the only wise--
While to all things base and earthy,
How madly cling my wistful eyes!
I am blind! in rough paths groping,
With outstretched hands and sightless eyes;
Through gloom so dense, I scarce am hoping
That dawn will ever gild the skies.
Black, grisly spectres hover o'er me,
Filling my quaking soul with fright;
Thou--of all worlds the sun and glory,
Radiant Redeemer! be my light.
I am lonely! often keeping
Sad vigils o'er affections dead;
Some in the grave's strait chamber sleeping--
Some like bursting bubbles fled!
Yet for full love my deep soul longeth--
Gently each seeking tendril bend
To Thee--to whom that soul belongeth;--
Loving Redeemer! be my friend.
I am guilty! oh how sinning!
Against my kind--against my God;--
Hell and corruption ever winning
My soul into the downward road.
Insanely gloating on pollution--
Quaffing thick lees for pleasures pure--
Rend thou away each fell delusion,
Holy Redeemer! be my cure!"
"Do you recollect the visit to which he refers?" inquired Ida.
"I was with him until late, one night, a week before his death," was
the reply; "and our conversation may have inspired the thoughts he has
expressed here; but I cannot say with certainty, that it did. If this
temper of spirit and heart was habitual to him, what may we not hope?"
"If!" exclaimed Ida, sadly. "Doubt is agonizing. It is not consistent
with God's mercy that he should be consigned to never ending misery; he
whose faults made us love him better; the soul of honor and integrity!
I will not believe that so much that was pure and good is quenched in
eternal darkness. This thought is with me night and day. What authority
have men, his inferiors by nature--hardly his equals in the practice of
virtue, to doom him, and hope a happier fate for the themselves?"
"Who has done this?" asked Mr. Lacy, sternly.
"More than one, in my hearing; and Charley was exasperated to insult a
man, a church member, who exhorted him not 'to imitate his example, and
thereby meet the same awful punishment.' Charley regrets now, that he
spoke rudely to one his senior, and whom he had hitherto respected, but
says he, 'a Christian should not forget that he is a man!'"
"Nor does he," replied Morton. "From some who cross the river of
Death we hear the 'All's Well,' when their feet touch the solid
ground; then we may rejoice in the confident assurance that we shall
meet them again. As many pass over in timid, as in despairing
silence;--timidity, exchanged for rapture, on the bright shore beyond.
God only knows the heart--only knows when the doomed oversteps the
bounds He has appointed for his mercy; and as we hope for it ourselves,
we should tremble at the thought of limiting it by our finite
judgments. In this immeasurable love and pity is our trust, Ida; doubts
and fearings cannot solve the mystery; we know this, however--'He doth
not afflict willingly,' and 'remembereth our feeble frame.' Who pardons
a child's faults more than a parent? and 'Our Father' is also _his_.
Yet," continued he, "Charley erred in repulsing the warning, kindly, if
injudiciously extended. The suffering we experience in our uncertainty
as to his condition, should teach us to make our salvation sure, so
that when our hour shall come--if a call at midnight, we may not leave
those who love us, comfortless."
"His death has caused a heart-rending void," said Ida. "I start
whenever the door opens at the hours he was accustomed to visit us. At
Mr. Dana's, I am listening all the time for his step or voice. Oh! why
do nonentities, cumberers of the earth, spin out a tiresome life, and
the loved and useful perish?"
"Perhaps they are taken away from the evil to come. You would not
rebel if you believed this? At best, what are the short years of toil
and change we pass below, compared with the never-ending life of our
heavenly home?"
"You forget that I have no portion in that home, Mr. Lacy."
"No portion! You do not mean to refuse an inheritance so graciously
offered! It may be long before we have another opportunity to speak of
these things; will you make me a promise?"
"If I can perform it," answered she.
"It is that you will every day, ask yourself, 'What happiness does my
soul desire that Christ cannot, and will not bestow?' Will you do this?"
She promised.
"It seems impossible," he pursued, "that a sorer trial than that which
you are now undergoing, can befall you; yet there may be such in
reserve, and then, I would have you recollect, that as He is the only
happiness, He is also the only comfort. Willingly--gladly as I would
suffer in your stead, I would not save you a pang, if I thought it was
His means to bring you to Himself."
He spoke with emotion, as if possessed with the conviction that the
event he adverted to would assuredly take place; and that this was
his sole chance of preparing her for it. He arose--she gave him her
hand--it was taken as silently, and held for a long minute.
"This is not our parting," said he; "if we both live, I shall see you
again soon, but to provide against contingencies, I will ask you now to
write to me; I mean, of course, in answer to my letters, as you would
to Charley--to a brother,--will you?"
"Yes, if your letters are as frank as your speech, and I am granted a
like indulgence."
True to his promise, he called upon the eve of her departure, but
the presence of the family and other visitors prevented private
conversation; and Charley's manoeuvres, skilful and unsuspected as they
were, failed to effect a diversion of Josephine's watchfulness. Yet as
they said "farewell" Ida felt a card slipped into her hand. Upon it was
pencilled, "Remember your promise. Mizpah."