University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The winter passed away with no marked change in the Howell family, so well was Leonard acting his part. Beautiful spring arrived, and Mrs. Howell and the children went once more in peace to attend the Easter services. Ere another came the cloud had burst and the torrents of woe were pouring in upon them. As a momento of this Easter, on returning from the service Hortense wrote the following spiritual lines:

In this highly spiritual poem, unchained by style or rule, there breathes a fervent devotion to Christ and His cause, which up to this hour had not been overthrown by the most subtle and dangerous assaults. The spirit of a broad charity for the erring, sympathy for those who are suffering from the world's cold scorn, and love and tenderness for those who fail to walk in the narrow way — not who have strayed from, but who fail to walk in the narrow way — also manifests itself freely. The poem tells of a Christian faith and Christian love; and shows a pure soul drawing supplies of strength from contact with the al-loving, all-saving Christ.

Had Leonard been able to walk with

his wife on the same highway of faith, their happiness would have been complete. Unfortunately, bad books and worse companions, uniting in his own unevenly developed moral nature, had driven him from the path of peace. He wandered in a philosophy which he had accepted as religion, and which had driven all love for the church and all regard for the Sabbath, from his breast. While Hortense was delighting and strengthening her soul with the rich thoughts of Easter, he was exciting and stimulating thoughts of an opposite character, as he met with other wild spirits in discussion upon such delectable themes as freedom, radicalism, and progress.

Aside from what went on away from home under the guise of friendship, Leonard's associations brought to the house and into the presence of Hortense, persons

whose manner and spirit became objectionable to her chaste and sensitive nature. The freedom which she saw on occasions existing between her husband and some of the female visitors, was to her decidedly irritating; and although she tried hard to conceal from her self the approaching revelation, and sought to take refuge in self-accusations of narrowness and jealousy; yet gradually and relentlessly, and at length overpoweringly, came the conviction that he husband's heart was no longer hers. The angel of light which she had forced herself to see in Leonard's philosophy was now unrobed, and she saw a form that was of the earth, earthy. She was supplanted.

Once we saw Leonard thoughtfully looking upon Hortense, as her inward pious character shone out to his view, almost startled, and asking himself, Could he love

her in spite of her religion? His indecision, however, lasted scarcely long enough for him to formulate the question in his own mind. Her rich womanhood quenched the thought as soon as its truant scintillations told of its existence. But now the drama presents a reverse, and Hortense stands swayed between a love that knows not its own depths and the possibilities of a hatred as deadly as the possibilities of her nature.

Her black hair and flashing eyes, her whole form and manner told of her power to hate and avenge; but happily for her, for her children, and for Leonard, the panther within had been long locked in chains, and the keys were with the angels. True to that charity which sang itself in that Easter poem, she continued to love and pity the one being who had wronged her most. She sacredly guarded his good

name and shielded his children from the knowledge of his ways. It was a prodigious work — too great for any woman. Hortense was manifesting a greatness that eclipsed to darkness that of the crowned Isabella and Elizabeths of fame and story. She was burning at the stake, not with outward and material fire, but with the exquisite torture of secret, spiritual agony.

Two years went on Leonard in sinning. Two years — long, dreadful horrible years — went on Hortense in dying. Jealousy, says Solomon, is the rage of a man. Jealousy is devouring flames to a woman. Slowly but steadily burning by night and by day, this inextinguishable fore, fed by the sins of an erring husband, continue to engulf in its pitiless flames the body and soul of the helpless victim who was passing through it, bound as with cords of iron to this altar of sacrifice.

The atmosphere around Leonard may have had something to do with awakening the beast that was within him; still it must be said he never became a Southerner; but confined himself quite closely to the New England colony dwelling in the neighborhood and to the few Southerners of kindred sentiments who associated with them.

Among these were found the few spirits who had advanced beyond all forms of orthodoxy, and who spent their time seeking after the Truth [?]. In this circle he fed his soul with all the untried vagaries that active brains could bring forth, and pushed to excess his theories respecting marriage and the relations of the sexes, supporting his views by the declaration that to the pure all things are pure. He constantly pleaded for an enlarged — a more developed love, claiming that the more

that is given out, the happier will be the giver, and the richer the world in receiving. "No great nature," said he, "should be expected to confine itself to one small love." This theory he held for both sexes, proclaiming that all persons, even in wedded life, should be prefectly free to give and receive love, taking care all the time to guard his theory from the least suspicion of physical impropriety.

Hortense, who had been partly charmed with the beautiful idealistic pictures of a love-charmed world which Leonard drew, in which people of both sexes and all ages, who would come up to the doctrine, should be bound together in happy concord through the commerce of pure affection, at length saw the sham dissipated, and was now realizing the sad truth that, as two kinds cannot reign on one throne, so two women cannot reign in one heart.

The heart that had professed itself large enough for the many, was fast becoming too small for her to find in it a lodging-place of any sort. She felt herself banished from it as the dove from the ark, and as she wandered about in thought over the wide earth, finding no resting-place for the sole of her foot, bruised in spirit and bleeding at heart, she threw her weary wings at Leonard's breast only to find it closed. There was not room for two, and the usurper was within. After a few vain efforts Hortense turned away and abandoned herself to her living death. Chastened, gentle and sweet of spirit, she had always given out much of her heart to her children, but was also much dependent upon her husband's favor. His confidence, respect, and love had been her life in a large degree. As she turned from this support to confront the fires in which she read her fate, she said: "The caresses of love have been my life from infancy. By my mother, my sister, and my brothers I have been nourished on tenderness. Since my marriage my husband had yielded me his love. Now all is gone. I cannot unburden my heart to any one; I cannot live without my husband's love. No longer loved by him for whom I have given all. Oh, God, let me die !"

Mrs. Howell, however, concealed her grief, locking the fire within her bosom, only now and then allowing it to break forth in her hours of solitude. Her two children, now in their teens, Willie and Mary, became her constant and only companions; while Leonard, happy in his new love for which he had prepared his heart by treacherous philosophy, seemed not to

know of his poor wife's pain. Had his doctrine then succeeded? thought he, as he passed on from day to day receiving no word of reproach from the saint by his side who was preparing for heaven. He knew nothing of "the powers of the world to come," which had descended and clothed the woman with inevitable patience, and which were supporting her faith even amid the cruel fires which he kept so fiercely burning all around her.

But my pen refuses to follow either the wicked steps of Leonard, or the thorny path trodden by poor Mrs. Howell. Let us pass by the greater part of these two years of sinning by the one and of suffering by the other, and take up the story nearer its crisis.

Flesh and blood, although divinely supported, cannot endure everything. The months of sorrow told upon Hortense.

Her flesh departed, her strength failed; her shoulders were stooped, her hair turned gray, her steps began to falter, her eyes became too brilliant for continued stay, and her whole face and manners indicated that the end was coming. Leonard had at length begun to notice it; and day by day the dark fact came nearer to him and confronted and reproached him; but he resisted it with the firmness of desperation.

Ah ! Leonard, thou hast sown to the wind; ay, worse than that, thou hast sown to the wind and flesh; of the one thou shalt reap corruption, and of the other death. The tables are turning.

Poor Hortense suffered in quiet. Nature was long and stubborn in dying; but nature is dead with her now; her sufferings are all over and her soul is peaceful. The long, weary battle is fought and

the victory won. The flesh, the world, Satan and self, with her are dead, and she is resting, ay, hiding now in the secret of His presence, who keeps, we know not how. Ah, Leonard, she in not thine now! Once she was, but when she came to thy heart, so sad, so weary, after her long flight in quest of an earthly lodging, dost thou remember, Leonard, how her tired, dew-dripped wings rapped against the casements of the windows of thy breast, and thou, bewitched by sinful delights, didst thou not admit her? Dost thou remember it, Leonard? Then it was thou that sentest her away. She is not thine now. She has passed through the fires and is purified. She is God's, and awaits only the robe and the crown. She is waiting, Leonard, waiting for thee. Fear her not, Leonard; though her form is holiness in the fear of the Lord, her heart is filled with that love which thou hast sought to counterfeit by a love that was earthly, sensual, devilish, Hortense is no longer thine."

Thus spoke a voice to Leonard's conscience one morning as he lay in bed half-awake, startling him to the very core of his being. The voice seemed familiar, and notwithstanding the solemn and somewhat strange form of expression, the impression, at first vague, became more distinct as he fully awoke. The message that had come through to him was so clear, so thrilling, that the whole world was transformed to him in an instant. The voice, the solemn manner, the form that dimly outlined itself to his vision — all bespoke the preternatural appearance of the departed Mrs. Vanross, the mother of his dying wife.

Oh, the harrowing thoughts that rushed in upon his soul ! The levees were overthrown and the whole plain of his sinful

heart was inundated with grief and remorse.

As the morning advanced he went into his wife's room, for she was now bed-fast, and having calmed himself, greeted her with his usual: ,Good morning, Tonsy; how are you this morning?"

But he was not prepared for the answer that came from the sick woman.

"Oh, Leonard," she said quite vivaciously, "I am well, well this morning. Mamma came to see me last night in my dreams; and, oh, Leonard, she looked so sweet, so angelic, and so heavenly; and kissed me so lovingly, that I am well this morning. I have not an ache nor a pain, a grief nor a sorrow; all, all are gone. Yes; I am well this morning."

Leonard could stand no more. Attempting to reply, he could only say :

"Ma came to see me also," and sank into a chair by his wife's bedside, and there burying his face in the bedclothes near his wife's pillow wept aloud. Oh, how he lashed himself, and how his awakened conscience stripped his heart bare to the blows. He had partially tired of his newfound idol, and she had departed. The hour of reaction, or for a deeper plunge into sin, was at hand. Had the all-merciful God in his providence crossed his path at this opportune moment to save him? Or was the accumulation of outward and inward sorrows that were beginning to pour their flood into his soul destined to bury his in irretrievable ruin?

As soon as Leonard could command words he attempted to make a full confession of his wrongs — painting himself in true colors. He told the story of his duplicity, and of his treachery; of his

deceitful philosophy, and of his wicked sinning; but ere he had more than outlined it, Hortense replied :

"My dear husband, you need not tell me; I know it all, and have known it all along. The pain has ceased now, the iron doesn't hurt my heart any more; all that could feel the smart of your action was causing has passed away. My Saviour has kept me, and I am at peace. My work is done and my sufferings are ended. This was God's way. It seemed strange and hard to me months ago; but I see it was all right. The journey is over now, and I am only waiting."

Leonard had never heard his wife talk in that strain before, and the beautiful light that seemed to shine from her countenance, as well as the calm confidence of her tones, alarmed him. He was awed by what he saw and heard. Once more the

inner, spiritual character of his wife, of whom he saw he had never been worthy, shone out with superior effulgence. Again he saw her as she stood in her youth and beauty before him, holding up, as he attempted to reason or ridicule, the standard of sublime devotion to the faith which saves. Now, lying upon her back, with bodily strength all gone, he sees that triumphant faith bearing her up. He is awed and he is alarmed. He feels that the sad crisis is hurrying on.

Hortense is dying, Leonard. She has been dying nearly two years. Art thou her murderer?

As soon as possible Leonard made his way to the telegraph station, and soon thereafter messages were hurrying to the relatives in Charleston, and to Lavinia in Brooklyn. Hortense sick, very sick, was the burden of all the communications

that went forth. As Leonard went from duty to duty in the early morning, this thought was tearing his soul in shreds: "I have killed her ! I have killed her!" And then, half-crazy with remorse and grief, he would exclaim : " Oh, that some one would avenge her death upon me ! Oh, that some one would kill me !"

Now fully awake to all his past misdoings, and to the horrible fact of his wife's serious situation, Leonard, hastening back to her bedside, broke out with the suppressed lamentation : "Oh, Hortense, you must not die ! I cannot endure the loss of you. You must get well; try to, won't you?" His face was bathed in tears, and there rested upon it also the conflicting expressions of tenderness and of love, of sorrow and of guilt. As he ceased speaking there was a most pitiful, beseeching look in his eyes as he gazed fully into the face of his sick wife.

The reply of Hortense was calm and sweet : "Leonard, do not grieve. The storms are all over with me. There is no hope of return. I shall never retrace my steps. I am nearing the banks of the Jordon. 'I hear the noise of wings,'" said she, quoting from a familiar hymn.

Then it was that Leonard poured out his soul in confession, in grief, and in remorse, as he paced back and forth in the room alone with his wife. And at last turning to her, he said :

"Hortense, will you forgive me for my great sin against God, myself, and you?" He stopped and waited for her reply.

Hortense with fervor answered : "I forgive, even as I am forgiven. As I stand before my God fully absolved, so have I released every living person. Yes, Leonard, all is forgiven."

Let me pass over what immediately

followed, only to record this last solemn conversation of the dying wife and mother with her erring but now repentant husband.

"Leonard," said she, "our children are baptized in the Christian faith. I solemnly promised to rear them in accordance with the beliefs and practices of the church. I have done the best I could thus far, Leonard, to bring them up as Christians; and I feel sure my work has not been unsuccessful. They are Christian children to some extent, but the work of training is not done yet. I can no longer be with them to carry out the obligations I assumed for them before the Lord in His church. Who, Leonard, will finish my work?" As she said thus she fixed on Leonard a look of earnest entreaty, and awaited his answer.

Leonard continued to pace the floor in silence for some time. A deep and fierce struggle was going on within between his

pride, his love, and his moral sense. Should he throw overboard all that cargo if theories he had so long been carrying and admit himself to have been deceived by his own subtle reasonings ? He had given up his sins; why not jettison the cargo of pestiferous theories which had nourished and defended them in part ? His theories never had been sufficient to entirely cover his conduct. Stretch the covering as he would, it was not sufficient to cloak all his misdoings. His theory stopped short at a line drawn between love and lust; but his practice confounded these two passions and ignored the limitation of his philosophy. Why not discard the theory as being sufficient neither to produce a good life nor to defend a bad one ? Somewhat in this line ran Leonard's thoughts as he walked up and down his sick wife's bedroom.

At length he stopped. His face showed

great agitation and his whole frame shook, and in a voice hushed and choked he said :

"My dear wife, I will, God helping me, take hold of the work where you lay it down, and to the best of the ability will carry out the obligations made in the church and which I now assume; I will try to walk before our children in your spirit, that they may be saved from such a life as mine has been. If God will forgive the unchangeable past, I will from this hour, dear Hortense, consecrate myself to the carrying out of your life. You shall live, Hortense." Then with tears streaming down his cheeks he groaned, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

The pledge was made and peace came to the struggling soul of Leonard, but the thorn of regret for those years of sin never passed completely away. The mind of Hortense was now thoroughly at rest.

Leonard had awakened from his dream, and had laid hold upon God. He was no longer weak, but strong enough through divine aid. She knew that all was well and her pious heart sang:

"I have anchored my soul in the haven of rest."

Leonard was not happy; how could he be happy in such surroundings ? But he was saved from evil, and his work was before him. His one thought was to live for his son and his daughter, Never before had they appeared as precious in his sight; never before had life seemed so awful to him : "I must put on the garment of the pure Christian mother of my children, and train them for God and heaven. This is my vow before God; this my pledge to me dying wife — my martyr wife — I must do it!"

This was his purpose as defined within himself by himself.