The evening is drawing on again at Exeter, and Alice and her mother are in
a little sitting room that opens on the porch. Mrs. Weston is fanning her
daughter, who has been suffering during the day from headache. Miss Janet
is there, too, and for a rare occurrence, is idle; looking from the window
at the tall peaks of the Blue Ridge upon which she has gazed for many a
year. Little Lydia stands by her side, her round eyes peering into Miss
Janet's face, wondering what would happen, that she should be unemployed.
They are awaiting Mr. Weston's return from an afternoon ride, to meet at
the last and most sociable meal of the day.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "aint Miss Alice white?"
"Very pale," said Miss Janet, looking at Alice; then, with a sigh, turning
to the mountains again.
"What makes her so white?" asked Lydia, in an under tone.
"She has had a headache all day. Be quiet, child," said Miss Janet.
After a moment, Lydia said, "I wish I could have de headache all de time."
"What do you say such a foolish thing as that for, Lydia?"
"'Kase I'd like to be white, like Miss Alice." Miss Janet did not reply.
Again Lydia spoke, "If I was to stay all time in de house, and never go in
de sun, would I git white?"
"No--no--foolish child; what gives you such ideas?"
There was another pause. Mrs. Weston fanned Alice, who, with closed eyes,
laid languidly on the lounge.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, speaking very softly, "who made de
lightning-bugs?"
"God made them," said Miss Janet.
"Did God make de nanny-goats, too?"
"You know that God made every thing," said Miss Janet. "I have often told
you so."
"He didn't make mammy's house, ma'am; I seed de men makin it."
"No; man makes houses, but God made all the beautiful things in nature. He
made man, and trees, and rivers, and such things as man could not make."
Lydia looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the moon was coming forth,
a few stars glistened there. Long, fleecy clouds extended over the arch of
heaven, and some passing ones for a moment obscured the brightness that
gilded the beautiful scene.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "its mighty pretty there; but 'spose it was to
fall."
"What was to fall?"
"De sky, ma'am."
"It cannot fall. God holds it in its place."
Another interval and Lydia said: "Miss Janet, 'spose God was to die, den de
sky would broke down."
"What put such a dreadful thought into your head, child?" said Miss Janet.
"God cannot die."
"Yes, ma'am, he kin," said Lydia.
"No, he cannot. Have I not often told you that God is a spirit? He created
all things, but he never was made; he cannot die."
Lydia said inquiringly, "Wasn't Jesus Christ God, ma'am?"
"Yes, he was the Son of God, and he was God."
"Well, ma'am, he died onct, dat time de Jews crucified him--dat time de
ground shook, and de dead people got up--dat time he was nailed to de
cross. So, ma'am, if God died onct, couldn't he die agin?"
Miss Janet, arousing herself from her reverie, looked at the child. There
she stood, her eyes fixed upon the sky, her soul engaged in solving this
mysterious question. Her little hands hung listlessly by her side; there
was no beauty in her face; the black skin, the projecting lips, the heavy
features, designated her as belonging to a degraded race. Yet the soul was
looking forth from its despised tenement, and eagerly essaying to grasp
things beyond its reach.
"Could he die agin, Miss Janet?" asked Lydia.
Poor child! thought Miss Janet, how the soul pinioned and borne down, longs
to burst its chains, and to soar through the glorious realms of light and
knowledge. I thought but now that there was no more for me to do here; that
tired of the rugged ascent, I stood as it were on the tops of those
mountains, gazing in spirit on the celestial city, and still not called to
enter in. Now, I see there is work for me to do. Thou art a slave, Lydia;
yet God has called thee to the freedom of the children that he loves; thou
art black, yet will thy soul be washed white in the blood of the Lamb; thou
art poor, yet shalt thou be made rich through Him who, when on earth, was
poor indeed. Jesus, forgive me! I murmured that I still was obliged to
linger. Oh! make me the honored instrument of good to this child, and when
thou callest me hence, how gladly will I obey the summons.
"Lydia," she said, "the Son of God died for us all, for you and for me, but
he was then in the form of man. He died that we might live; he never will
die again. He rose from the dead, and is in heaven, at the right hand of
God. He loves you, because you think about him."
"He don't love me like he do Miss Alice, 'kase she's so white," said Lydia.
"He loves all who love him," said Miss Janet, "whether they are black or
white. Be a good child, and he will surely love you. Be kind and obliging
to everybody; be industrious and diligent in all you have to do; obey your
mother and father, and your master. Be truthful and honest. God hates a
liar, and a deceitful person. He will not take care of you and love you,
unless you speak the truth. Sometimes you try to deceive me. God will not
be your friend if you deceive any one. And now go to your mother, she will
put you to bed."
Lydia made a curtsey, and said, "Good-night, ma'am." She went to Mrs.
Weston, and bade her good-night too. Then turning toward Alice, she gazed
wonderingly at her pale face.
"Is you got de headache now, Miss Alice?"
"Not much," said Alice, gently.
"Good night, miss," said Lydia, with another curtesy, and she softly left
the room. "Oh, mammy," she said, as she entered her mother's cabin, "Miss
Janet say, if I'm a good child, God will love me much as he loves Miss
Alice, if I is black. Miss Alice is so white to-night; you never see'd her
look as white as she do to-night."
* * * * *
Mr. Weston alighted from his horse, and hurried to the sitting-room, "Have
you waited tea for me?" he said. "Why did you do so? Alice, darling, is
your head better?"
"A great deal, uncle," said Alice. "Have you had a pleasant ride?"
"Yes; but my child, you look very sick. What can be the matter with you?
Anna, did you send for the doctor?"
"No--Alice objected so."
"But you must send for him--I am sure she is seriously ill."
"There is nothing the matter with me, but a headache," said Alice. "After
tea, I will go to bed, and will be well in the morning."
"God grant you may, my sweet one. What has come over you?"
"Tea is ready," said Cousin Janet. "Let us go in to it, and then have
prayers, and all go to bed early. Why Cousin Weston, you are getting quite
dissipated in your old age; coming home to tea at this hour; I suppose I
shall begin such practices next."
Miss Janet's suggestion of retiring early, was followed. Phillis came in to
see how Alice's head was, and recommended brown paper and vinegar. She made
no comment on her appearance, but did not wonder that Lydia was struck with
the expression of her countenance. There was an uneasiness that was foreign
to it; not merely had the glow of health departed, there was something in
its place, strange there. It was like the storm passing over the beautiful
lake; the outline of rock, and tree, and surface, is to be seen, but its
tranquil beauty is gone; and darkness and gloom are resting where has been
the home of light, and love, and beauty.
Alice undressed and went to bed; her mother raised all the windows, put out
the candle, and laid down beside her. Hoping that she would fall asleep,
she did not converse, but Alice after a few minutes, called her.
"What is it, Alice?"
"Did you hear what Cousin Janet said to Lydia, to-night, mother? God hates
those who deceive."
"Why think of that now, my love?"
"Because it refers to me. She did not mean it for me, but it came home to
my heart."
"To _your_ heart? That has always been truth and candor itself. Try and
banish such thoughts. If you were well, fancies like these would not affect
you."
"They are not fancies, they are realities," said Alice. She sighed and
continued, "Am I not deceiving the kind protector and friend of my
childhood? Oh, mother, if he knew all, how little would he love me! And
Arthur, can it be right for me to be engaged to him, and to deceive him,
too?"
"Dear Alice, how often have we talked about this, and hoped you were
satisfied as to the propriety of being silent on the subject at present.
Your uncle's health is very feeble; he is subject to sudden and alarming
attacks of sickness, and easily thrown into a state of agitation that
endangers his life. Would you run such a risk? What a grief would it be to
him to know that the hopes of years were to be destroyed, and by one whom
he had nursed in his own bosom as a child. Poor Arthur, too! away from home
so long--trusting you with such confidence, looking forward with delight to
the time of his return, could you bear thus to dash his dearest prospects
to the earth?"
"But he must know it, mother. I could not marry him with a lie in my right
hand."
"It will not be so, Alice; you cannot help loving Arthur, above all men,
when you are with him; so noble, so generous, so gifted with all that is
calculated to inspire affection, you will wonder your heart has ever
wavered."
"But it has," said Alice; "and he must know all."
"Of course," said Mrs. Weston; "nothing would justify your having any
reserve with him, but this is not the time for explanation. If I believed
that you really and truly loved Walter, so as to make it impossible for you
to forget him and return Arthur's affection; if I thought you could not one
day regard Arthur as he deserves, I would not wish you to remain silent for
a day. It would be an injustice, and a sin, to do so. Yet I feel assured
that there is no such danger.
"A woman, Alice, rarely marries her first love, and it is well that it is
so. Her feelings, rather than her judgment, are then enlisted, and both
should be exercised when so fearful a thing as marriage is concerned. You
have been a great deal with Walter, and have always regarded him tenderly,
more so of late, because the feelings strengthen with time, and Walter's
situation is such as to enlist all your sympathies; his fascinating
appearance and interesting qualities have charmed your affections. You see
him casting from him the best friends he has ever had, because he feels
condemned of ingratitude in their society. He is going forth on the voyage
of life, alone, you weep as any sister would, to see him thus. I do not
blame him for loving you; but I do censure him in the highest degree, for
endeavoring to win more than a sister's regard from you, in return; it was
selfish and dishonorable. More than all, I blame myself for not foreseeing
this. You said yesterday, you could not bear the thought of being separated
from Arthur. You do not know your own heart, many a woman does not, until
time has been her teacher; let it be yours. Cousin Janet has thus advised
you; be guided by us, and leave this thing to rest for a while; you will
have reason to rejoice in having done so. Would you leave me for Walter,
Alice?"
"No, mother. How could you ask me?"
"Then trust me; I would not answer for your uncle's safety were we to speak
to him on this subject. How cruel to pain him, when a few months may
restore us to the hopes and happiness which have been ours! Do what is
right, and leave the future to God."
"But how can I write to Arthur, when I know I am not treating him as I
would wish him to treat me?"
"Write as you always have; your letters have never been very sentimental.
Arthur says you write on all subjects but the one nearest his heart. If you
had loved him as I thought you did, you never would have allowed another to
usurp his place. But we cannot help the past. Now dear child, compose
yourself; I am fatigued, but cannot sleep until you do."
Alice, restless for a while, at last fell asleep, but it was not the rest
that brings refreshment and repose. Her mother watched her, as with her
hand now pressed on her brow, now thrown on the pillow, she slept. Her
mind, overtaxed, tried even in sleep to release itself of its burden. The
wish to please, and the effort to do right, was too much for her sensitive
frame. It was like the traveler unaccustomed to fatigue and change, forced
to commence a journey, unassured of his way, and ignorant of his
destination.
Her mother watched her--a deep hue was settled under her eyelashes, the
veins in her temple were fearfully distinct, and a small crimson spot
rested on her cheek. She watched her, by the moonlight that glanced over
every part of the room. She listened to her heavy breathing, and lightly
touched her dry and crimson lips. She stroked the long luxuriant curls,
that appeared to her darker than they ever had before. She closed the
nearest window, lest there should be something borne on the breath of
night, to disturb the rest of the beloved one. But, mother! it will not do;
the curse of God is still abroad in the world, the curse on sin. It falls,
like a blighting dew, on the loveliest and dearest to our hearts. It is by
our side and in our path. It is among the gay, the rich, the proud, and the
gifted of the earth; among the poor, the despised, the desolate and
forsaken. It darkens the way of the monarch and the cottager, of the maiden
and the mother, of the master and the slave. Alas! since it poisoned the
flowers in Eden, and turned the children of God from its fair walks, it is
abroad in the world--the curse of God on sin.
There is a blessing, too, within the reach of all. He who bore the curse,
secured the blessing. Son of God! teach us to be like thee; give us of thy
spirit, that we may soften to each other the inevitable ills of life.
Prepare us for that condition to which we may aspire; for that assembly
where will be united the redeemed of all the earth, where will rejoice
forever in thy presence those of all ages and climes, who looked up from
the shadow of the curse, to the blessing which thou didst obtain, with thy
latest sigh, on Calvary!