The season of sunshine and roses had come, and Carry's demands for her
friend's society were importunate.
"You would not fret your dear heart with harrowing doubts of my love
for you and Poplar-grove, if you could peep in upon me this morning,"
wrote Ida. "Mr. Read is worse. I am unfamiliar with the diagnosis
of this malady; but I fear his condition is very precarious. He is
entirely disabled; cannot lift his hand to his mouth without extreme
pain, and his nervous system is much deranged. I write now at the
window farthest distant from his bed, and cautiously, that the
scratching of my pen may not disturb him. I can see your hands and eyes
go up, and hear the 'this is too much!' which signals the last throe
of expiring patience as you picture me a nun-like figure, with serge
gown and close cap; or more affecting, an attenuated damsel, such as
we see upon tomb-stones, pressing a handkerchief to one eye; I imagine
your multitudinous arguments, each unanswerable in its excellence,
and which I know by heart. You allege that he is not entitled to my
cares, inasmuch as there are no ties of blood between us; that he has
never done me an ungrudged favor; that he is greedy and thankless for
my services; that his wife and daughter should esteem it their duty
and pleasure to tend him; and fifthly and lastly, that it is wrong to
endanger my health, as your whimsical country doctors will have it I am
doing. Putting the last first,--reassure yourself my dear--I am _well_.
I do not prevaricate to allay your fears; I look well, eat well, and
sleep well, and I may dismiss the remainder of your objections in one
sentence--I am doing my duty, Carry! I am morally certain of this,
more certain, than if you were my charge; for my love would be the
mainspring of action then. I am upheld by the assurance, that I am
fulfilling, in my humble way, the command, our Saviour appointed as
the touchstone of piety to the end of time--'Do good to them that hate
you, pray for them that despitefully use you.' I thank Him that He has
vouchsafed to me this opportunity to examine myself by this criterion."
The sufferer moaned, and she laid down her pen. "You have had a
refreshing sleep, have you not, sir?"
"No! there is no ease for me. Why is that window open? It does seem
that you all have conspired that I shall die, whether or no. Where is
Helen?"
"She was here awhile ago, and will be in again soon."
"Is she in the house?"
"I do not know, sir. Let me get what you want."
"I want _her_!"
She was not at home, and Ida renewed her offer.
"Gone out, hey!" he rambled on, peevishly. "How she walks! as if the
ground were not good enough for her feet! ogling and coquetting! and I
am _here_!" with an oath. "Where is Josephine?"
"Down stairs, sir."
"What is _she_ about?"
"Anna Talbot is with her."
"More folly and vanity! ringlets and ribbons, and bonnets and beaux!
The world is peopled with knaves and fools--women are knaves--men
fools. You are a mixture."
Ida suppressed a smile. "Your lips are dry," she said "here is water."
He drank it. "You are!" he went on, obstinately, "I hated you from
the minute you entered this house, and you repaid me with compound
interest. Here you are, sitting up at night; waiting on me all day. I
can't do without you, because you are handy and wakeful, but I don't
like you. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"I _don't_! and therefore, I'm a fool to tolerate the sight of you. I'm
a fool--_that's_ proved! You are spoiling your eyes and complexion, and
losing the time you might be catching a husband--mewed up here. You
expect to be paid when my will is read--that's knavery--hypocritical
knavery. I haven't left you a red cent; you are a fool to think of it,
and _that's_ proved!"
Pitiful driveller! It was not insensibility, but compassion, that
closed Ida's month, although she knew this was the revelation of the
inner chamber of thought, now that the veil of custom and policy was
rent in twain.
"What time is it?"
"Twelve o'clock, sir."
"That's a lie! it's three, at least! Bring the witch to me. It has
stopped! Hold it to my ear--you've put it back! Lay it down by me! I
don't trust you again!"
The hands pointed to one when Mrs. Read appeared.
"Well, madam!" the form of each tooth was seen through the thin lips,
stretched over them like yellow parchment. "And where have you been
traipsing?"
"I walked down the street."
"And on Main street, too, I'll swear! spending more money than you'd
sell for at auction! Why don't you answer me? Your tongue was more glib
when you were passing compliments with that fellow who walked with you."
"I went out alone, and did not go on Main street."
"You would have been better employed in the kitchen--forever gadding! I
don't want you in here--I'm sick of you and your brazen face!"
"What error to suppose that sickness softens, and predisposes the
heart to repentance!" thought Ida. She went into the other room, and
beckoned Mrs. Read. "The doctor was here this morning," she said; "and
told me, privately, not to mind his irritability, nor to answer him,
unless silence increased it. It is an ordinary symptom in neuralgic
affections. We must be forbearing."
"There is a limit to everything," was Mrs. Read's response.
"True--but forbearance should last as long as the pain we would cure."
"That is your theory, Miss Ida. I am tired of the practice. You mean
well, I have no doubt, but I am not a fit object for your charity."
The asperity was pointed at herself, rather than at her hearer, and Ida
pondered upon her words and manner, often during the day.
"It did not agree with" Josephine "to sit up"--a constitutional
weakness, loudly lamented, and encouraged, instead of overcome. Ida
and Mrs. Read divided the vigil; the mulatto nurse, Sarah, sleeping
in the apartment. Ida was to watch the latter part of the night.
The patient was cross and restless, when she looked in upon him at
bed-time--railing, and swearing and abusive.
"You want me dead!" he said to his wife; "but I won't die--to spite
you. I shall live years, and years, and years, 'till you are a
toothless hag, and walk with a crutch! Ha! ha!"
"He is delirious!" whispered Ida. "Let me stay with you!"
"He is _not_! I prefer your retiring. Sarah will call you at two."
"I shall not undress, to-night, Rachel," said Ida. "I have a
presentiment I shall be wanted."
"Is he much worse?"
"No--but I may be called up. I shall sleep here, upon the lounge."
But sleep was coy to her wooing. If she had ever felt fear, she would
have known that she was scared and excited. The south wind generally
affected her unpleasantly, creating heat and nervousness; but to-night
the breeze was from the north, and the moonbeams were spread in broad,
white sheets upon the floor. "I must be sick!" she said, aloud.
"I cannot ascribe this numb horror to anything else. They have a
superstition that it is a precursor of death." Her mind rejected this
explanation, but the utterance of that word had populated her soul
with phantoms. Lynn's chill, damp hands again enfolded hers; and his
glazed, upward look--still and fixed, moved not at her weeping; the
clods rattled upon the coffin--frozen clods! and how warmly soever the
sun smiled upon the swelling turf--down where he slept, it was frosty
night still! Must he, the loved and gifted, rest there forever? would a
tender mother's arms never more embrace her,--the dear lips, now turned
to dust, never cling to hers, in speechless fondness? But the dead
should rise! some to the resurrection of the just, some to everlasting
shame and contempt. Oh! the unspeakable woe of a hopeless death! the
dying strife of the finally impenitent! Was _his_ end approaching? "My
God! avert from him this doom!" His room was beneath hers. She could
hear occasionally a groan, which she knew was an execration. He might
be dying. She thrust her feet into a pair of felted slippers, and
descended to his door. "Quiet--quiet _as death_!" "This is improper!
irrational!" said she, severely, to herself. "I need repose and
steadiness of nerve--there are watchers with him." But she would not
go back to her room. She went, instead, to the parlor. The hall-lamp
burned all night; and setting open a door, and unclosing a shutter,
to dissipate the darkness, which suffocated her, as a thick pall, she
stretched herself upon a sofa. She slumbered and dreamed--visions,
like her waking fancies. She was in Mr. Read's chamber; writing to
Carry, at her far window;--the door swung back, and his wife glided
in. With a gesture of silence to her, she passed to his bedside, and
poised a knife above his heart! Ida strove to scream--to move--but
her mighty efforts only shifted the scene--did not awaken her. He was
dead; and his friends had come to the funeral. They thronged the room
where his corpse lay in its costly coffin; and the carriages, headed
by the hearse, grated upon the pebbled gutter. The undertaker was
tightening the silver screws--when, oh! horror! the lid was heaved up
from within--crashing and splintering--and the dead sat upright! The
distorted features were Mr. Ashlin's,--the yell, as he tossed his arms
aloft,--Mr. Read's. "I will not die!" She was in the centre of the
apartment; the cold beads dripping from her forehead, and her hair,
dank and heavy, upon her face and neck. She put it back, and listened.
The silence drove by her in waves--throbbed with the beatings of her
heart. Hark! it was not all a dream! the pawing of hoofs rang upon the
stones. The moon had set; and the lamp was brighter than the starlight.
She had the presence of mind to creep to that side of the window
hidden by the shutter, and looked out. A carriage was at the door--in
appearance like the doctor's. He had been summoned--the sick man was
worse. Something light and white sailed past her window, from overhead;
as it fluttered to the ground, a tall figure stepped from the vehicle,
and caught it to his bosom. The apparition of the Arch-Fiend himself
would not have shaken Ida, as did that manly form. She was awake! A
stealing step fell, softly as a snow-flake, upon the floor above--she
heard it. With the speed of light, she flew to the front door--locked
it--to that at the other extremity of the passage--hid both keys
beneath the cushion of the hall-sofa, and back again to the street
entrance, as Mrs. Read, dressed for travelling, had her foot upon the
lowest stair. The fugitive leaned against the wall for support, faint
with the terrors of detected guilt.
"Back!" said Ida--her cheek bloodless--her eyes flashing living fire.
"False to your word! false to your sex! I will save you from public
disgrace! Back! I say!"
"Not while I live!" was the answer.
"And you cross this threshold over my body!" cried the girl,
passionately. "Oh! shame! shame! you--the pride and idol of your family
and your husband! that you should break their hearts and disgrace his
name!"
"It is not my name after I leave this--I shall forget and be forgotten.
Let me go!"
"Forget! forgotten! you may! a false woman can forget the mother who
reared her! but the stain upon them! your tears, nor _his_ blood can
cleanse it!"
"You are mad!" said Mrs. Read, regaining her composure. "You cannot
stop me. My home is in another land. Why do you talk of disgrace? the
brutal dotard I fly from, will unfasten my legal fetters, and then I
shall _live_! the life for which my Creator destined me!"
"_You_ speak your Creator's name! trampling upon His laws--His curse
hanging over you! Oh! I entreat you, by a mother's prayers--for the
sake of your old father, tottering upon the verge of the grave--in
the name of your honorable and loving brother, not to expose your
design! You shall not--you cannot go; the doors are locked--call for
assistance from those who are without, and I will alarm the household.
To-morrow your name will be trumpeted at the corner of every street.
Ha! that cry! they have discovered all! Too late! too late! but no!--"
She tore off the cloak and bonnet, and threw them into a corner, as
Sarah rushed down the steps.
"Mistress! Miss Ida! for the Lord's sake, come! Master is dying!"
A cry from Josephine pierced their ears. Ida forgot her companion, but
she reached the chamber with her. Writhing, convulsed, screaming, he
was wrestling with the Destroyer; the disease had grappled his heart.
Mrs. Read sank upon her knees, as blasted by a thunderbolt; Josephine
shrieked in helpless dismay; Ida was wrought up to too high a pitch,
to think of self.
"Where is John?" she cried. "Here! run for Dr. Ballard! Mr. Read is
_very_ ill! Call for Mr. Talbot as you come back. Fly!"
He was down stairs while she was speaking. "Why, Miss Ida, the key is
not here!"
She ran for it, unlocked the door, and pushed him out. A man stood
in the shade of the porch, whom John did not perceive, in his rapid
egress; but he seized Ida's hand, as she would have shut him out.
"Helen!"
"Mrs. Read's _husband_ is dying, Mr. Ashlin!"
"Good heavens!"
The bolt had shot into its place, ere he could say more.
All the accompaniments of the last agony, of which Ida had ever heard,
read or conceived, were realized in this struggle;--the blackening
features, drenched with sweat, the starting eye, the twitching muscles,
the death-rattle,--the soul was tearing through the clay receptacle:
yet for two hours the awful conflict was protracted.
Morning! a sheet covered the rigid, motionless limbs and countenance,
telling in death, of suffering; and there were solemn stoppings and
stifled whispers through the house; and crape waved from the door,
where the traitorous friend had waited, at night, for the dead man's
wife.
Mrs. Read was borne to her chamber in hysteric convulsions, and
continued raving and swooning all day--attacking, in tigress fury,
every one who approached her, excepting Ida. Her she would not suffer
to quit her sight. Holding her hands in a frantic grasp, she poured
forth such tales as made her heart ache: of warm Spring evenings,
when the air was laden with sweet-briar scent, and the young moon was
swimming in the pale blue sky, and the star of love shone upon them--an
eye of light--from the blushing west, and he sung to her--poetry
ascending from his heart as perfume from the flowers--songs, upon
whose memory she lived, in the winter of his absence. "But"--and the
deep wells of her eyes were black with anguish, "her heart died, and
dissolution came not to the body--would that it had! and the thought
of the past was a yawning abyss, like the abode of the lost, from which
arose hot, poisonous simooms and tormenting spirits. The world brought
incense and gaudy offerings, and friends their best treasures, but it
closed not--and she resolved, by self-immolation, to shut the chasm; by
an irrevocable sacrifice, to seal it forever. The effort was idle--she
sold soul and body for nought. He came, and turned her face to the
Future. His heart had wavered, but returned to its allegiance. She was
his, by an earlier, holier tie than her loathed tyrant's;--away in the
sunny land of their youthful dreams, they would live, unmolested by
memory or care. She clung to duty, until her husband drove her from
him with a curse; to a brother's love,--and he painted that brother's
hatred of him, and threatened to see her no more;--and by the specious
names of "soul-dictates," and the "religion which enjoins truth, and
condemns hypocrisy," gained her promise. The hand of the Almighty
interfered!
Ida shut up her tears, and reasoned and plead with her; praying
inwardly for her comfort, and that her own mind and nerves might not
fail her. She rested the maniac's head upon her breast--bathed the
beating temples, and pressed her cool lips to the parched ones, working
with pain--beseeching her, with every endearing epithet, to rest and
forget. But the lava crust was heaving; and the long-repressed flood
spread over it in fast, soothing streams. The June twilight was on the
earth--as she had described those of years agone; and in calming tones,
she bade Ida "sing."
"What shall I sing?"
"Of love and faith and hope."
The exhausted girl rallied her strength, and the sweetest of written
hymns seemed whispered to her spirit.
"'Oh! Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If pierced by sins and sorrows here,
We could not fly to Thee!
'The friends, who in our sunshine live.
When winter comes, are flown;
And he, who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
'But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part--
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
'When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished too;--
Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love,
Come, brightly waiting through the gloom,
Our peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.'"
The head weighed upon her arm, she did not withdraw it Scarcely
breathing herself, she listened to the regular respiration, that said
the distempered brain was locked in forgetfulness. One--two--three
hours--and a cold lifelessness succeeded to the smart and aching
suspended circulation had first produced, a torpor, creeping to her
shoulder--affecting her whole body; but she would not terminate that
blessed slumber. A fleet step ascended the stairs,--it did not belong
to any of the household, yet was not strange. A knock--which she could
not answer--the bolt was cautiously drawn.
"Helen!" said her brother's voice.
The "hush-sh-sh!" silenced him, but he entered. The moon revealed the
dark and white forms upon the bed.
"Your sister sleeps!" said Ida, under her breath. "I beg you to
retire--she must not see you. Oh! go!" for she was awaking.
"Ida!" said Mrs. Read; "what am I doing here? Oh! mercy! I remember!"
"Peace! peace!" and with gentle violence, Ida forced her back to the
pillow. "You are safe and well now."
She was still for a minute. "Whom were you speaking to when I awoke?"
"Some one opened the door, and I did not wish you disturbed."
"It was a servant, then? I dreamed Richard had come. Oh! if he should!"
"Do you want us to send for him?"
"Never!"
"But the fatigue of travelling rapidly over so great a distance will be
too much for your parents. Some of your friends ought to be with you."
"But not Richard! any one else!"
Ida was perplexed. He would insist upon seeing her, as soon as he heard
that she was awake;--they must meet in the morning, and the shock then
might unfit her to endure the trials of the day; yet to tell her now,
appeared cruel and unnecessary.
"You have not eaten to-day--you will take some nourishment if I bring
it?"
"Don't leave me!"
"Only for a little while. Promise me to be good and quiet, until I can
run down stairs and back."
"Only do not stay--I am afraid to be alone."
Richard was pacing the hall with a troubled air. "How is she?" he asked.
"More composed."
"May I go up?"
"It pains me to deny you, but she can see no one, at present."
"This is extraordinary, Miss Ida. We know that there is not ground for
this excessive grief, and Helen has not miss-ish nerves. What ails her?"
His frown commanded her to reply, explicitly.
"You do not reflect how sudden Mr. Read's death was, Mr. Copeland. It
was an alarming event to us all. After awhile, your sister will receive
you. She does not know that you are here;--her mind has wandered all
day; and I deemed it safest not to agitate her. Trust me to do all in
my power for her and you."
"I do!"
Mrs. Read remained comparatively tranquil, saying little, except to
supplicate Ida not to leave her.
"You are better--are you not?" inquired the latter, stroking her brow.
"Yes--easier, and more quiet."
"I find your brother has been sent for;" she pursued.
"He has come!" ejaculated Mrs. Read. "Oh! what shall I do? what shall I
do?"
"It is unavoidable;--you must meet--why delay it?"
"Oh! he will kill him! he said he would, if he ever spoke to me again!"
More perplexity! Ida staggered under it. Her ingenuousness pointed
to the straightest, as the best road. The guilty mind would never be
unburdened without confession; but there was solid rock, underlying
the foamy flow of Richard's character. When his distrust of Ashlin
did not amount to a defined conviction, he had said, that he "dared
not see him"--and she recalled his meaning,--"If he crosses my path
again!" The dilemma was fearful--a life of concealment to one, murder
to the other. Mrs. Read's consternation redoubled on perceiving hers.
"What shall I do? oh! if I could die!" she moaned, tossing from side
to side. Ida spoke in accents of command--representing the unhappiness
she would experience in her intercourse with her deceived brother; the
watchfulness, and subterfuges, and the misery of accepting a love she
had forfeited; and on the other hand, the remorse of the murderess; the
blood of another soul clogging hers; the public ignominy--but this was
barely touched upon.
"Yet sin unconfessed to man, is not always unrepented of to God;" said
she.
"Can you resign this base-hearted man, and devote your life to an
endeavor to repair--you cannot of yourself, expiate your offences
against your Maker and your fellow creatures?" And the haughty,
hardened woman bent before the simple majesty of truth and feeling, and
solemnly vowed herself ready for her work.