"Letters from home at last," said Arthur Bernard, as he entered the
private salon of an hotel, located in a pretty town in the south of
France.
"I had begun to think our friends had quite forgotten us," he continued,
addressing his sister, who, seated in a recess formed by a large
bow-window, had been anxiously watching for his return.
"You have not opened any of them yet," she said, as she came eagerly
forward to receive her share.
"No;" was the reply. "I knew how anxiously you were waiting, and
hastened that we might read them together."
"Always thoughtful, dear brother, of my comfort, you quite spoil me,"
said Ella, with an affectionate smile, but in a tone, whose subdued
sound, proved a striking contrast to her former vivacity.
For the next few moments silence reigned in the apartment, for each were
busily engaged in perusing their respective epistles.
It was broken at length by an exclamation from Ella, which arrested her
brother's attention, and looking up from the opened sheet he held in his
hand, he ejaculated with alarm,--
"For pity's sake, Ella, what is the matter?" for his sister's cheek had
become colorless as marble, and sinking into a seat, she burst into a
passion of tears.
Still more alarmed, he laid down the letter, and advancing to her,
implored her to tell him the cause of her agitation.
"Read for yourself," she said, "for I cannot bear to speak of it. Oh,
Agnes, Agnes!"
A fresh mist of tears followed these words.
"Agnes, what of her?" and Arthur's cheek became almost as blanched as
his sister's, and his hand trembled as he grasped the fatal manuscript.
He seemed to forget that the name might belong to some other than Miss
Wiltshire, for among the circle of their acquaintance there were two or
three with a similar designation, but in his inmost thoughts, though he
had never thus addressed her, he had been so accustomed to associate it
with the remembrance of herself, that it had become dear and sacred as a
household word, and when his sister's ejaculation of "Agnes, Agnes," met
his ear, he never dreamed of other, for
"There was but one such name for him
So soft, so kind, so eloquent."
The letter was from a lady acquaintance of Ella's, written in a fine
Italian hand, not very intelligible, and crossed and re-crossed in a
most elaborate manner.
"Commend me to a lady's epistle," he said, in a tone more nearly
approaching to bitterness than his sister had ever heard from him
before. And, indeed, trying to the patience at any time, its perusal,
just now, seemed a hopeless task; but at length, at the foot of the
closing page, the writer having largely expatiated on the loss she had
sustained in the departure of her dear friend Ella, and how eagerly she
had looked forward to her return, and having exhausted all other items
of information which "she hoped," she added, "might not prove
uninteresting to her friend and Mr. Bernard," very coolly wound up by
remarking, "By the bye, I suppose you have not heard of Miss Wiltshire's
unhappy fate. I think it was a week or two after you left B----, that
she embarked in one of the steamers, ostensibly on a visit to a relative
who resided in H----, to act as bridesmaid for his daughter, but with an
intimation from her uncle, so I understand, that unless she relinquished
her fanatic notions, she must no longer expect a home beneath his roof.
The vessel in which she embarked sailed at the appointed time, but never
reached its destination. It took fire the night after leaving the
harbor, and all efforts to quench the flames were unavailing. The
passengers, of whom there were a large number on board, attempted to
escape in boats; some were fortunate enough to succeed, but the ladies,
among whom was Miss Wiltshire, without exception, found a watery grave.
It appears that the females had been first placed in one of the boats
manned by two or three sailors, and then another boat received the male
passengers and crew. They had hoped to keep near each other, but were
separated by the dark and tempestuous night. The gentlemen were
fortunate enough to gain land, after a good deal of sailing, and from
thence, having endured much fatigue, at length arrived here in safety;
but of the missing ones no intelligence was gained, until yesterday,
when a boat, identified by the passengers, from the name printed on its
stern, was picked up by some vessel, and brought into our harbor. It had
drifted nearly as far as the coast of Newfoundland, and, strange to say,
a woman's bonnet was found floating near it, which being also conveyed
here, was immediately recognized by Mrs. Denham, as the very one Miss
Wiltshire wore on leaving home, thus proving, beyond the slightest
doubt, the terrible fate which befell her and her unfortunate
companions. Mr. and Mrs. Denham seem almost bereft of their
senses,--they refuse to be comforted,--and blame themselves as the sole
cause of their niece's death; but, for my part, and I am sure you will
agree with me, I think Miss Wiltshire's singular conduct was quite
sufficient to warrant the anger of her relatives, who had always treated
her with such indulgence; for it seems to me a great presumption, for a
young person to set up her own ideas, in opposition to those who
certainly are far more capable of judging of what is right and wrong.
"Poor thing, she has gone now, so it would not be right to speak too
harshly; but I cannot help telling you, that she was never a favorite of
mine, for I do dislike that pretending to be so much better than others,
and she had such a soft, winning way with her, that I believe some
almost thought her an angel, but she couldn't thus have imposed on me."
Arthur read no further. He forgot his sister's presence; forgot that the
epistle belonged to her, and with an impulse of indignation he could not
control, he tore it in pieces, scattering its contents to the winds;
while with open, wondering eyes, the tears suddenly checked, Ella looked
on without speaking, almost ready to conclude that her brother had taken
leave of his senses. He turned from the open casement, and as he met her
inquiring and troubled gaze, instantly became himself again.
"Forgive me, dear sister," he said, in a tone of mingled anger and
grief, "that I have destroyed that =precious= manuscript," laying an
emphasis on the word precious; "but oh, Ella, Ella, is it possible that
such fearful intelligence can be true? It almost seems," he added, in a
tone of anguish and despair, "that heaven could not permit one so
young, so lovely, to perish in such a heart-rending manner,"--he stopped
abruptly,--and Ella was spared replying by a gentle tap at the door.
"Come in," she said in a low, faint voice, and, in compliance with the
invitation, an elderly American lady, who was on a visit to some friends
that resided opposite, and with whom Ella had become quite intimate
during her sojourn in the place, entered the apartment.
"I have been wanting so much to see you, my dear child," she said,
affectionately, "and have been looking for you all the morning, and
finding you did not make your appearance, concluded to come in search of
you. But what is the matter," said she, pausing, and glancing first at
Ella, and then at her brother, "I trust you have not heard any bad
news?"
"We have, indeed, dear Madam," replied Arthur, with an effort to control
his voice, "the loss of a very dear friend,"--here the tones visibly
faltered,--"by the burning of a vessel at sea, and the subsequent
upsetting of a boat, in which some of the passengers were endeavoring to
make their escape."
"That is indeed very, very sad news," said the old lady, affectionately
clasping Ella's hand, "and I, my friends, can sympathize with you, for
five years ago to-day, my son, my darling son, the pride of my heart,
the charm and ornament of our dwelling, set sail from his native shores,
for a distant land, and from that moment unto this, no tidings ever
reached me of his fate, for the vessel was heard of never after."
"Do you know," she said to Ella, a few moments after, as Arthur, with
some murmured apology left the room, for he felt that human sympathy,
however precious at other times, seemed but to madden him now, and he
longed to be alone--"Do you know," she repeated, as the young girl's
eyes, swollen with weeping, were upraised to her benevolent countenance,
"that I was standing at the window right opposite, when you drove up to
the door, and as your brother quickly alighted from the carriage, and
tenderly assisted you out, my heart beat quick; the blood forsook my
cheeks, and my whole frame was convulsed with emotion, for so strikingly
did he resemble my lost one in look and manner, that, for the moment, I
wildly dreamed that he had come back to bless me."
The old lady's tears flowed freely.
"I miss him so much, so very much," she said, "and especially on the
anniversary of that fatal day which tore him from my fond embrace, and I
can well appreciate the emotion which lent intensity to David's pathetic
exclamation, 'Oh my son, my son, would to heaven I had died for thee,
oh, my son, my son.'"
While Mrs. Cartwright was thus, by a relation of her own trials,
endeavoring to divert, in some measure, Ella's mind, and prevent her
from dwelling too exclusively on this painful event, Arthur, having
gained his chamber, was now pacing the floor with restless steps, his
whole soul a prey to the most intense emotions of grief, such as he had
never before experienced. At one moment he felt stupefied, at the
suddenness of the blow; the next, aroused again to the consciousness of
its terrible reality. At length a hope, that seemed to up-spring from
the depth of his despair, shed a faint light over the chaotic darkness
that reigned within. "The information may be exaggerated," was his
mental solving, "for it is plain that the writer, in penning it, was
actuated by no feelings of good-will, and there may yet exist a hope of
Anges's escape." With this idea, he opened another epistle, which he had
received, but not yet read. It was from an elderly gentleman, who had
always held Agnes in the deepest esteem, and with a trembling hand he
broke the seal. Alas for his futile hopes! Not at the close of the page,
as in the one received by Ella, but at the very commencement of the
letter, was the mournful intelligence communicated, and while the
narrator deeply deplored the event, he intimated, at the same time, that
not a doubt existed in his own mind, or in the minds of her friends, as
to the certainty of her untimely fate.
Arthur laid the letter aside, and again commenced his restless pacing.
Alas, he had once almost imagined himself a Christian, for had he not
been sedulous in the discharge of every duty, and, like the young man
referred to in Scripture, could have said, with reference to the moral
law as far as outward observances are concerned, "All these have I kept
from my youth up." But now, mitigating, soothing, extracting from grief,
however mighty, some portion of its bitterness, where was the
resignation of the Christian? Not, certainly, in that heart so full of
bitterness, that was ready to contend with heaven for having reclaimed
its own; its power, its goodness, its wisdom, were almost,
unconsciously, arraigned, and finite man presumed to pass judgment on
the acts of infinite benevolence, until, at length, shocked at his own
rebellious feelings,--and startled, nay, terrified, at this the deepest
insight he had ever obtained of the natural depravity of his heart, he
sank into a chair, and in utter recklessness abandoned himself to the
tide of grief which seemed waiting to overwhelm him.
Oh there are terrible moments in human experience, moments when even the
Christian is so haunted by the demon of unbelief, when the dire enemy of
God and man takes advantage of some unpropitious circumstance, some
painful affliction, to taunt the soul, already almost crushed, and to
inquire, with fiendish malignity, "Where is now thy God?" that if not
wholly overcome, he, at least, escapes alone with fearful wounds from
the trying conflict; how then can that one sustain the assault who is
totally unprepared, and who knows but little of the source from whence
alone help can come? Well, indeed, for frail humanity, that there is a
tender, pitying Father, who "knoweth our frame, and remembereth we are
dust," and oftentimes, when our need is sorest, sends, in his own good
way, unexpected relief.
With his face buried in his hands, heedless of the lapse of time, and of
anything save his own absorbing emotion, Arthur still sat in the
armchair, into which he had thrown himself, his thoughts dwelling, with
strange pertinacity, upon the past,--the past that seemed to mock him
now.
They expected very shortly to have returned home, and he had anticipated
so much pleasure in that return. He had never analyzed the source of
that pleasure, but now that it was removed, he saw it too clearly; it
was the hope, the expectation, of meeting with her. He recalled to mind
the hours he had passed with her,--happy hours, all too quickly flown;
her winning smile, the sweetly persuasive tones of her voice, her
earnest and thoughtful manner, all came back to haunt him with their
memory. Oh, how distinctly he remembered one of the last conversations
he had with her, when, in her own mellifluous tones, she had repeated
Young's exquisite lines,--
"Stricken friends
Are angels sent on errands full of love,--
For us they languish, and for us they die."
Never had he felt their beauty as now, for the storm of passion had in a
measure subsided, and the still small voice of conscience once more
asserted its power.
"Oh, Agnes, Agnes," he murmured, "you tarried on our earth as an angel
of light, and now you have but returned to your native sphere, and
rejoined your sister spirits, but could you see my rebellious heart, how
infinitely removed from the resignation and purity that can alone find
admission into the haven of bliss, how should I sink in your esteem, if,
indeed, surrounded by the spirits of the blessed, your thoughts ever
turn to so miserable an inhabitant of earth."
A book lay on the table beside him. He took it up mechanically, scarcely
knowing what he did. It was an elegant edition of Mrs. Hemans' poems,
and had been the gift of Agnes to his sister a few weeks previous to her
leaving home.
On the fly-leaf she had inscribed Ella's name, and the sight of her
hand-writing sent a fresh thrill of agony to his heart. But last
evening, on borrowing the book from his sister, he had contemplated it
with such delight; now, it was but the fatal reminder of "what had been,
but never more could be." With the restlessness of a weary heart, he
turned over page after page, until his glance was arrested by some lines
she had evidently marked. How bitterly appropriate they seemed now as he
read,--
"Go, to a voice such magic influence give
Thou canst not lose its melody and live;
And make an eye the load-star of thy soul;
And let a glance the springs of thought control.
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings; there repose thy trust
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread '=forever=,' and despair."
It is true these lines, evidently addressed to an unbeliever in our holy
Christianity, were not, in that respect, applicable to him, yet he felt
that the reproof came home to his own conscience; for earth had too much
engrossed his vision, and while from childhood he had been taught that
life and immortality are brought to light by the Gospel, in his
despairing grief he had almost lost sight of the blessed possibility of
being re-united to her, whom he now contemplated as a sinless spirit in
the regions of eternal bliss.
Far reaching as Eternity were the results of these hours of affliction,
and with higher and holier aims, and the determination to consecrate
life's remaining days, weeks, or years, to that service which is alone
worthy of being engaged in by immortal beings, Arthur Bernard returned
once more to the battle of life, with a heart crushed and bleeding, it
is true, but not destitute of Peace, that celestial visitant, or of
heavenly hope, pointing to a brighter and more enduring inheritance.