"Oh, what a dream I have had!" exclaimed Mrs. Claire, starting
suddenly from sleep, just as the light began to come in dimly through
the windows on the next morning; and, as she spoke, she caught hold of
her husband, and clung to him, frightened and trembling.
"Oh, such a dream!" she added, as her mind grew clearer, and she felt
better assured of the reality that existed. "I thought, love, that
we were sitting in our room, as we sit every evening--baby asleep, I
sewing, and you, as usual, reading aloud. How happy we were! happier,
it seemed, than we had ever been before. A sudden loud knock startled
us both. Then two men entered, one of whom drew a paper from his
pocket, declaring, as he did so, that you were arrested at the
instance of Mr. Jasper, who accused you with having robbed him of a
large amount of money."
"Why, Edith!" ejaculated Edward Claire, in a voice of painful
surprise. He, too, had been dreaming, and in his dream he had done
what his heart prompted him to do on the previous evening--to act
unfaithfully toward his employer.
"Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!" continued Edith. "Rudely they seized
and bore you away. Then came the trial. Oh, I see it all as plainly
as if it had been real. You, my good, true, noble-hearted husband,
who had never wronged another, even in thought--you were accused
of robbery in the presence of hundreds, and positive witnesses were
brought forward to prove the terrible charge. All they alleged was
believed by those who heard. The judges pronounced you guilty, and
then sentenced you to a gloomy prison. They were bearing you off,
when, in my agony, I awoke. It was terrible, terrible! yet, thank God!
only a dream, a fearful dream!"
Claire drew his arms around his young wife, and clasped her with a
straining embrace to his bosom. He made no answer for some time. The
relation of a dream so singular, under the circumstances, had startled
him, and he almost feared to trust his voice in response. At length,
with a deeply-drawn, sighing breath, nature's spontaneous struggle for
relief, he said--
"Yes, dear, that was a fearful dream. The thought of it makes me
shudder. But, after all, it was only a dream; the whispering of a
malignant spirit in your ear. Happily, his power to harm extends no
further. The fancy may be possessed in sleep, but the reason lies
inactive, and the hands remain idle. No guilt can stain the spirit.
The night passes, and we go abroad in the morning as pure as when we
laid our heads wearily to rest."
"And more," added Edith, her mind fast recovering itself; "with a
clearer perception of what is true and good. The soul's disturbed
balance finds its equilibrium. It is not the body alone that is
refreshed and strengthened. The spirit, plied with temptation after
temptation through the day, and almost ready to yield when the night
cometh, finds rest also, and time to recover its strength. In the
morning it goes forth again, stronger for its season of repose. How
often, as the day dawned, have I lifted my heart and thanked God for
sleep!"
Thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of
Claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips. He had a
secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared
lest something should betray its existence to his wife. What would he
not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory
of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was
alone with the tempter?
There was a shadow on the heart of Edith Claire. The unusual mood of
her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted
her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off.
She had an instinct of danger--danger lurking in the path of one in
whom her very life was bound up.
When Edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she
lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him
pass from the safe shelter of home.
"Ah! if I could always be with you!" said Edith--"if we could ever
move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would
be my cup of happiness!"
"Are we not ever side by side, dear?" replied Claire, tenderly. "You
are present to my thought all the day."
"And you to mine. O yes! yes! We _are_ moving side by side; our mutual
thought gives presence. Yet it was the bodily presence I desired. But
that cannot be."
"Good-bye, love! Good-bye, sweet one!" said Claire, kissing his wife,
and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her
arms. He then passed forth, and took his way to the store of Leonard
Jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date
of his marriage.
A scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly
describe. Three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture
of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and
refinement. Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his
departure from earth. By his side, and bending over him, was a woman
almost as pale as himself. A little girl, not above five years of age,
sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of
her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man.
A lovely creature she was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of
childhood. For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber.
A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child,
and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This
was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she
laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from
her, and wept aloud.
No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He
only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his
heart.
The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their
depths.
"It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady
voice; "only for a little while."
"I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was
laid against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my
time, but"----
Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her
parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.
Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance.
"God will take care of her. He will raise her up friends," said he
quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him.
"All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and
mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm.
She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting
hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain
him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her
woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own
sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit
of her husband.
"God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was
striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned
over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of
an angel on her countenance.
"Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?"
was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face.
"A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly.
"He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children."
"Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over
again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower
and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going
thought found no longer an utterance.
Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all
objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as
death.
"He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from
her reclining position on the bed. "And dear Fanny sleeps also," was
added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child.
Two hours later, and the last record was made in Ruben Elder's Book of
Life.
For half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and
he then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain
behind.
"To Leonard Jasper, my old friend," said he to his wife, "I have left
the management of my affairs. He will see that every thing is done
for the best. There is not much property, yet enough to insure a small
income; and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the
support and education of our child."
Peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling
into slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another
world.
How Leonard Jasper received the announcement of his executorship has
been seen. The dying man had referred to him as an old friend; but, as
the reader has already concluded, there was little room in his sordid
heart for so pure a sentiment as that of friendship. He, however, lost
no time in ascertaining the amount of property left by Elder, which
consisted of two small houses in the city, and a barren tract of about
sixty acres of land, somewhere in Pennsylvania, which had been taken
for a debt of five hundred dollars. In view of his death, Elder had
wound up his business some months before, paid off what he owed, and
collected in nearly all outstanding accounts; so that little work
remained for his executor, except to dispose of the unprofitable tract
of land and invest the proceeds.
On the day following the opening of our story, Jasper, who still felt
annoyed at the prospect of more trouble than profit in the matter of
his executorship, made a formal call upon the widow of his old friend.
The servant, to whom he gave his name, stated that Mrs. Elder was so
ill as not to be able to leave her room.
"I will call again, then, in a few days," said he. "Be sure you give
her my name correctly. Mr. Jasper--Leonard Jasper."
The face of the servant wore a troubled aspect.
"She is very sick, sir," said she, in a worried, hesitating manner.
"Won't you take a seat, for a moment, until I go up and tell her that
you are here? Maybe she would like to see you. I think I heard her
mention your name a little while ago."
Jasper sat down, and the domestic left the room. She was gone but a
short time, when she returned and said that Mrs. Elder wished to see
him. Jasper arose and followed her up-stairs. There were some strange
misgivings in his heart--some vague, troubled anticipations, that
oppressed his feelings. But he had little time for thought ere he was
ushered into the chamber of his friend's widow.
A single glance sufficed to tell him the whole sad truth of the case.
There was no room for mistake. The bright, glazed eyes, the rigid,
colourless lips, the ashen countenance, all testified that the hour
of her departure drew nigh. How strong, we had almost said, how
beautiful, was the contrasted form and features of her lovely child,
whose face, so full of life and rosy health, pressed the same pillow
that supported her weary head.
Feebly the dying woman extended her hand, as Mr. Jasper came in,
saying, as she did so--
"I am glad you have come; I was about sending for you."
A slight tremor of the lips accompanied her words, and it was plain
that the presence of Jasper, whose relation to her and her child she
understood, caused a wave of emotion to sweep over her heart.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Elder, to find you so very ill," said Jasper,
with as much of sympathy in his voice as he could command. "Has your
physician been here to-day?"
"It is past that, sir--past that," was replied. "There is no further
any hope for me in the physician's art."
A sob choked all further utterance.
How oppressed was the cold-hearted, selfish man of the world! His
thoughts were all clouded, and his lips for a time sealed. As the
dying woman said, so he felt that it was. The time of her departure
had come. An instinct of self-protection--protection for his
feelings--caused him, after a few moments, to say, and he turned
partly from the bed as he spoke--
"Some of your friends should be with you, madam, at this time. Let me
go for them. Have you a sister or near relative in the city?"
The words and movement of Mr. Jasper restored at once the conscious
self-possession of the dying mother, and she raised herself partly up
with a quick motion, and a gleam of light in her countenance.
"Oh, sir," she said eagerly, "do not go yet. I have no sister, no near
relative; none but you to whom I can speak my last words and give my
last injunction. You were my husband's friend while he lived, and to
you has he committed the care of his widow and orphan. I am called,
alas, too soon! to follow him; and now, in the sight of God, and
in the presence of his spirit--for I feel that he is near us now--I
commit to you the care of this dear child. Oh, sir! be to her as a
father. Love her tenderly, and care for her as if she were your own.
Her heart is rich with affection, and upon you will its treasures be
poured out. Take her! take her as your own! Here I give to you, in
this the solemn hour of my departure, that which to me is above all
price."
And as she said this, with a suddenly renewed strength, she lifted
the child, and, ere Jasper could check the movement, placed her in his
arms. Then, with one long, eager, clinging kiss pressed upon the
lips of that child, she sank backward on the bed; and life, which had
flashed up brightly for a moment, went out in this world for ever.