But the daughter grew, day by day, more thoughtful, denied herself more
frequently to her followers, and was more and more often to be found
sitting with her father, alone, at the little table, winning him from
his labor. Mr. Cornelius was too much engrossed with the world, with
money-getting, to observe the beginning and progress of the change in
his daughter’s manner, amusements, and way of life; and he soon learned
to work on, with his child at his side, half unconscious of her
presence, and yet alive to the pleasurable feeling that there was
something near him which he much loved. I was not so blind. As month
after month rolled away, I saw the shadow of a great melancholy creep
slowly over her face, and deepen, and deepen, until it had imparted that
exquisite softness to her beauty which is the surest symptom of decay.
We see it in the flower; time gives it to all the works of man; and
genius shows it, as the flame trembles, flickers, leaps upward, and goes
out. The heart was sick; the spirit grew toward heaven. I had occasion,
one evening, to be with Mr. Cornelius until a late hour, conversing
about some matters in the courts which he had entrusted to my care; we
had talked much, and the last watch was drawing to a close, when the
door quietly opened, and his daughter entered, holding in one hand a
light stool, and in the other a book. “The gentleman will excuse us for
a moment,” she said, addressing her father; then turning to me, she
received me with her usual cordiality. “I have adopted a practice, of
late, of reading a chapter to my father before retiring,” she continued;
“and you can remain, if you please, and join us in our
devotions—surely, such worship can harm no one.” And sitting down at
her father’s knees, she laid the holy volume in his lap, opened it, and
read; while he bent over her until his silver locks mingled with the
jetty tresses of her hair, and listened to her teaching—it was time,
old, worn-out time, called to eternity by a sweet messenger from God.
“There, that will do, my child; put up the book,” said Mr. Cornelius, as
his daughter’s voice, losing its firmness, grew uncertain, and tears
fell pattering upon the story she repeated: “certainly, certainly, it is
not for me, in my old age, to learn of one so young.” It was a simple
tale, a touching parable, told by Christ; so appropriate as to require
from me no further designation. “Why, what spirit has come over you of
late—always weeping!” said the old man, kissing the moisture from her
eyelids. “What do you want? All that I have is yours. Now go—and see
that you show a merry face in the morning.” The daughter rose, and bid
us good-night.
“Do you not think Anne has lost a little of her color—grown slightly
pale, Mr. Didimus?”
I made known the fears which I had long entertained, and to which each
day added a confirmation.
“My daughter’s sick! sick at heart! Nonsense! What has she to be sick
about? Are not my coffers open to her hand? What power of this earth is
greater than her gold? Sick!—And yet, now I do remember, that for the
past month, or more, no music has come into me, as it was wont, from her
crowded rooms; no sounds of merriment, of joy, of the frivolity of
fools, grating upon the ear of night; no cringing, no bowing low with
doffed hat, and giving of God’s health, as I pass in and out at my own
door. Look to it: you are my daughter’s best friend; question her;
inquire out the secret sorrow which preys upon her mind—surely, money
is a medicine for all the ills of life. She requires a change of place;
these stuffed marts about us breed foul air; let her travel. Or,
perhaps, she has again listened to the idle whispers of love, and
conceals from me her weakness. Tell her, that although I would have her
live with me during the short remainder of my life, yet she shall marry
where she may choose; to give me a long line of heirs, rich, rich,
through two centuries. Sick! why I was never sick!” And the miser bent
over the little table, and returned to his calculations.