Old Mrs. Bond had taken her station on the sunny side of her piazza.
Mrs. Bond was no sentimentalist, as I have said before. She had never
read a line of poetry in her life; but she had read her Bible, and she
loved to watch the glorious sun go down, and think of the golden streets
of the New Jerusalem, with its gates of pearl, and walls of jasper. Many
a blessed vision from that sunset-seat had she seen with her spiritual
eyes; and many a sealed passage in the Holy Book which lay upon her lap,
had then, and there, and thus, been solved; and many a prayer had gone
from thence swift-winged to heaven.
The Bible contains great and mighty truths which none of us may safely
reject; but apart from this, no mind, how uncultivated soever, can be
familiar with its glowing beauty and sublimity, without being
unconsciously refined.
Oh! how many times, even to the God-forgetting, has the beauty of its
imagery come home with a force and aptness which no uninspired pen, how
gifted soever, could rival!
How vital and immovably lodged, though buried for years under the dust
of worldliness, its wise and indisputable precepts!
How like a sun-flash they sometimes illume what else were forever
mystery-shrouded!
And now the last tint of gold and crimson had faded out, and one bright
star sparkled like a gem on the brow of the gray old mountain, behind
which the sun had sank--bright as the Star of Bethlehem to Judea's
gazing shepherds, and like them, Mrs. Bond knelt and worshiped.
Broad as the world was her Bible-creed: it embraced all nations, all
colors, all sects. Whosoever did the will of God the same was her
father, sister, and mother; and like the face of Moses when he came down
from the mount, hers shone that evening with the reflected glory of
heaven.
The traveler could not have told, as he stopped before that little brown
house, and stepped on its homely piazza, _why_ he raised his hat with
such an involuntary deference to the unpretending form before him; _why_
his simple "Good evening, madam," should have been so reverently spoken;
but so it was; and the kind old lady's welcome to a seat by her frugal
board was just as unaccountably to himself accepted.
The traveler was a tall, dark-browed man, with a face and form which
must have been once pre-eminently attractive; but now, his fine dark
eyes were sunken, as if grief, or sickness, perhaps both, had weighed
heavily there; and his tall form seemed bent with weakness. All this his
kind hostess noted, and her nicest cup of tea was prepared, and the
wholesome loaf set before him, and a blessing craved over it, from lips
which knew no fear of man, with Heaven in sight. Perhaps this touched a
chord to which the stranger's heart vibrated, for his eyes grew moist
with unshed tears, and his voice was tremulous when he addressed his
hostess.
"Can you tell me, madam, how far it is to the nearest inn?"
"A weary way, sir--a matter of fifteen miles, and you so feeble. You are
quite welcome to stay here, sir, till morning; and your horse will be
well content in yonder pasture."
"You are very kind, madam," said the stranger, hesitatingly; then adding
with a smile, "travelers who have preceded me on this road must have
borne a good name."
"There is nothing here to tempt a thieving hand," said Mrs. Bond. "I
seldom think at night of barring yonder door. Where one's trust is in an
Almighty arm, there is little room for fear.
"I can remember when yonder broad oak was but a sapling. I was born and
married here, sir; through that door my husband and child passed to
their long home. My time can not be long; but while I stay, every stone
and twig in this place is dear to me."
"With pleasant memories for company, one can not be lonesome," replied
the stranger.
"No--and sad ones may be made pleasant, if one only knows how," and she
laid her withered hand on the Bible.
As she did so a paper fluttered out from between its leaves. "Sometimes,
though," said she, as she took it up, "one's faith is sorely tried.
"This now--this letter--it was from my child. I called her my child, and
yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me
'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; God knows she had sore need of
it, poor lamb.
"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her
child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to
see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her
innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes
she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful
with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and
sore.
"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome.
_She_ was good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived
and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word, sir; and when it
came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through
yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and
the babe just like dead.
"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and
make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined for _him_--she
fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide--and that
he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her
'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left
me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim--but I have no need to read it, for
the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself,
sir--mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing--I
should so like to know of her, before I die.
"The light is but dim, sir," said the old lady, as the traveler took it
in his hand, and held the letter between his face and Mrs. Bond's.
Yes--the light _was_ dim, so were the traveler's eyes; he must have been
sadly feeble too, for his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold
the letter.
"And you never heard from her, after this?" he asked, his eyes still
riveted on the letter.
"Not a word, sir; it makes me so sad when I think of it; perhaps she may
be dead."
"Perhaps so," answered the traveler, shuddering.
"May be you could make some inquiries, sir, if it would not trouble
you, as you go along; her name was Rose, though she looked more like a
lily when she left us, poor thing! Rose--and her lover's name was
Vincent; perhaps you may have heard of _him_."
"The name sounds familiar," said the stranger; "perhaps I shall be able
to get some clew to it."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, gratefully; "and now, sir, as I get up
early I go to rest early; so, if you please, I will show you your room;
it is very plain--but it is all the spare one I have. It was poor Rose's
room;" and Mrs. Bond taking her candle, led the way to it.
"There," said she, setting the light down upon the table, "many a time
when she stood at that little window, sir, she and the babe, people
stopped here to ask who they were, they were both so handsome, and so
different from our country folks.
"On that very little table she left her letter; it was a long time
before I could come here and feel that it was all right she should
suffer so, although I know that God's ways are just; but I shall know
all about it when I get to heaven; perhaps it was only 'the narrow way'
to take _her_ there--who knows? I would rather be Rose than they who
brought her here; and yet," said the mild old lady, hesitatingly,
"perhaps they _thought_ they did right, but riches make us take strange
views of things; it takes grace to be a _rich_ Christian. And when I
feel displeased with Mrs. Howe's heartlessness, I say, _money_ might
have turned _me_ aside too--who knows? Good-night, sir; heaven send you
sweet sleep;" and Mrs. Bond went down into her small kitchen.
And it was here--in this very room, that Rose had wept, and suffered,
and wrestled with her great sorrow! On that very pillow her aching head
vainly sought rest; at that window she had sat thinking--thinking--till
brain and heart grew sick, and God himself seemed to have forsaken her;
and down that road she had fled, like a hunted deer, with slander's
cruel arrow rankling in her quivering heart!
Not on _that_ pillow could sleep woo our weary traveler.
At the little window he sat and saw the night-shadows deepen, and only
the shivering trees, as the night-wind crept through them, made answer
to his low moan,
"Rose! Rose!"