 | CHAPTER XXV.
GLEAMS OF LIGHT. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
GLEAMS OF LIGHT.
Feeble, careworn, dejected, and miserable, Sir Walter
Clendennan, with a tottering step, walked up and down his
spacious library, his lips muttering prayers, and his heart
full of the deepest remorse. He was surrounded with the
productions of giant intellects, in every department of
science and literature, and the walls of his apartment were
busts and statuettes were so disposed as to relieve the eye
and add a picturesque charm to the whole. A tiny jet
of water fell, in silvery beads, with a soft, musical sound,
into a marble vase, and several bright gold-fish disported
themselves in the cool, pelucid element. On a marble table,
in the centre of the apartment, lay books, drawings, music
and manuscripts, overtopped by a pearl-mounted guitar, as
if this were the last thing used to relieve the mind of the
unhappy occupant. A velvet covered lounge was drawn up
by the table, and a hundred other things of taste and
luxury met the eye. To the innocent lover of letters, the
apartment would have seemed a kind of intellectual paradise;
but the unfortunate owner seldom saw aught around
him but the deepest shadows of gloom. Alas! what are
the gorgeous externals of earth, when a dark cloud of sorrow,
remorse, or despair, closes over the heart, and shuts
out the bright sunlight of peace and joy?
“It will soon be over now, sweet spirit!” muttered Sir
Walter, as he stopped to gaze upon the miniature of his departed
wife, which he ever carried next to his heart; “yes,
deeply wronged angel, it will soon be over now; and then I
trust to see thee in reality, as I last night saw thee in my
dream. Oh! why did I doubt thy loyalty, sweet angel?
and by my own rash act bring down upon my head the retributive
justice of Heaven! and fill with woe so many
other kind and noble hearts! and send them, throbbing with
anguish, down the rapid stream of time? Great God,
forgive me! I am a repentant man. I have suffered the
torments of hell for many long, long, weary, burdensome
years—and now, O God! in thy holy mercy, forgive me!
and let me die in the hope of a bright resurrection beyond
the grave! Oh! sweet angel!” he pursued, his eyes growing
dim with tears, as he gazed upon the painted ivory, set
will be no more parting—no more sorrow—no more anguish
—no more pain? Dare I hope to see thee in the glorious
realms of the blessed ones, clothed in a garb of such dazzling
whiteness and brightness, that our brilliant noon-day sun
would pale beside it? Didst thou breathe such sounds of
holy hope into my spiritual ear, as I last night lay in my
dream?”
He sighed, and pressed his lips to the likeness, and returned
it to its place beside his heart, and resumed his
walk to and fro.
“Ah! little wanderer!” he said at length—“sweet little
pilgrim! from whose pure, innocent face, my sad heart
caught a ray of sunlight—art thou in Heaven, too? and
shall I ever behold thee again? Strange! strange! how
like was she to him who fell by my hand! And Rosalind
—good, sweet Rosalind!” he continued—“thou wilt soon
have no unhappy father to vex and weary thee! How
have I abused thy gentle affection! my heart bleeds to
think of it! Oh! I am a wretch—a very wretch—and
deserve not mercy. Thou wilt grieve when I am gone,
sweet Rosalind! notwithstanding I have been so cold and
harsh to thee. But it is thy pure, unselfish, loving nature
that will cause thee to grieve—not my remembered kindness—for
I have been cold and harsh to thee, sweet daughter!
And what will become of thee when I am gone?
For my sake thou hast buried thyself in seclusion—and
hast made few friends—and among those friends, how few
are friends indeed! There is one,” he mused, “who, if I
have read his noble heart aright, feels more than friendship
for thee; and if, as I believe, thou art blessed with the love
of one such heart as his, thou need'st not mourn the loss
of thy unhappy father!”
As he ended his soliloquy, his long thin fingers nervously
servant. In a few moments the door of the library was
softly opened, and the face of Kitty timidly appeared to
his view.
“Where is Rosalind?” inquired the Knight.
“In the drawing-room, sir.”
“Is she alone?”
“No, sir,” hesitated Kitty; “at least, I think not, sir.”
“Who is with her?”
“Why, sir, if anybody, I think, perhaps, it is—it
is—”
Kitty paused, afraid to mention the name that was
already upon her lips—for knowing the peculiarities of the
unhappy Baronet, she was fearful of encountering a sudden
storm of passion.
“Well, speak out,” said Sir Walter, gently; “I will not
be angry, Kitty.”
“Thank you, sir!” returned Kitty, brightening. “I
think it is young Dr. Stanhope, sir.”
“Ha!” returned the Knight, with a slight start, while
a bright gleam of joy passed over his pale, haggard features.
“Bid them both come here at once—both, Kitty—
mind! both.”
“I will, sir!” said Kitty, bounding lightly away, and
wondering to herself what could have caused so favorable
a change in one, who, if kind at heart, was generally harsh
in speech.
The dream of the lovers was broken by the somewhat
abrupt entrance of the domestic, who hurriedly delivered
her master's message.
“Both, Kitty?” exclaimed Rosalind, starting up and
changing color. “Are you sure he said both?”
“Yes, Miss Rosa: he asked who was here, and I was
tell you both to come to him at once.”
Rosalind looked at the young Doctor, and said, with some
embarrassment:
“I fear we shall meet with censure; but oh! Newton,
should he be harsh in speech, I pray you be kind in your
answers, and remember not his words against him!”
“When the heart is full of joy, as mine is now, dear
Rosalind,” returned the other, in a low tone, “the lips can
not speak unkindly. I will bear with him, and strive to be
as gentle in my replies as your own sweet self.”
Kitty smiled to herself, as she withdrew, but said
nothing; and the lovers, with anxious hearts, immediately
repaired to the library. Sir Walter was seated on their
entrance; but feebly rose, extended his arms, and said, in
a voice tremulous with emotion:
“Rosalind, my sweet child, come here!”
With a cry of joy, Rosalind threw herself into the arms
of her father, clasped her own around his neck, and burst
into tears; and amid choking sighs and sobs, she faintly
murmured:
“Oh! father—dear, dear father—you make me so
happy!”
“Heaven bless you, my sweet child!” returned the
Knight, hastily brushing the gathering mist from his eyes,
and struggling to keep down his rising emotions: “when
so little can make you happy, I cannot but think what a
selfish wretch I have been, to let you be miserable for so
long a time!”
“Do not say thus, dear father!” cried Rosalind, starting
back, and looking fondly and anxiously upon his pale, careworn
features: “do not reflect upon yourself, dear father,
or I shall be more unhappy than ever!”
“Well, well,” rejoined Sir Walter, “I will say nothing
erring man all my life; but if repentance—deep, sincere,
heart-felt repentance—can atone for the wrong done, I hope
to be forgiven at last. Dr. Stanhope,” he continued,
turning to the young physician, and extending his hand,
which was cordially taken—“I owe you an apology, sir,
for many harsh words, spoken in moments of severe bodily
pain and mental anguish! Have I your forgiveness?”
“As I hope to be forgiven myself, kind sir, you have!”
returned Stanhope, deeply affected by the whole scene.
“Thank you! thank you, my young friend! you have a
noble heart. Come! I pray you both be seated—I have a
few words to say to you. Here, sit here—there—so;” and
Sir Walter himself sunk down on the lounge, by the table,
with his anxious listeners facing him, and rested his forehead
on his hand.
He paused for a few moments, with his eyes cast down,
seemingly in deep reflection; and then raising his head,
and turning to the young physician, he said:
“Dr. Stanhope, do I count too much upon you, in supposing
you the sincere friend of Rosalind?”
“No, Mr. Clendennan,” replied the young man, coloring
deeply, glancing at Rosalind, and seeming not a little
agitated; “and with your kind permission, dear sir, I trust
I may one day be something more to her than a mere
friend.”
“Ha! is it so?” returned Sir Walter, looking from one
to the other. “It is then as I would have it; and having
no longer need of mortal life, I may go quietly to rest.”
“Father!” exclaimed Rosalind.
“Start not, sweet child! and look not so grieved!”
pursued the Baronet. “Remember, I have long wished to
die, to escape my mortal wretchedness; and now I desire
it more than ever—for a bright hope has sprung up in my
world. Rosalind, I saw her last night!”
“Saw her, father?” cried Rosalind, with a start.
“Yes, dear child—in a dream; but still a dream so like
reality, that it seemed not a dream. She talked to me
long, and bade me rejoice; told me my prayers had been
heard; that my trials would soon be over; and that my
weary spirit would soon be free to roam with her the
celestial regions of Paradise, where day is eternal and
sorrow unknown. Oh! she looked so bright, and beautiful,
and happy—and spoke so rapturously of her immortal
home—of its golden lights—its balmy airs—its silver
streams—its deep green shades—its clustering flowers—its
thousand scenes of music, beauty, love, that my imprisoned
spirit strove to burst its bars of clay and follow her to
Heaven! Was this a mere dream? Once I might have
thought so—but now, by the fond bright hope I have within
me, I can not think it all a dream.”
“I fear it was not all a dream, dear father!” said Rosalind,
solemnly. “It seems rather like one of those visions
which the spirit sometimes has on the verge of the eternal
world!”
“So let me hope—God grant it true!” rejoined the
Knight, with deep feeling. “And I have begun to set my
house in order for my last journey!” he continued; “and
ere I go forth, never to return, I would know how I leave
you, my daughter! Speak freely, both, and frankly! Is it
settled that you are to be united?”
“Such is my brightest hope, dear sir!” responded Stanhope.
“'Tis frankly said; and pardon a father for adding, you
will never regret your choice. Yet there is one thing!” he
pursued, after a brief pause, looking steadily at Rosalind,
“Does he know all, my child?”
Rosalind blanched and trembled and gasped for breath.
“No, dear father,” she made out to articulate: “I had
forgotten—I did not think—I—”
“She is falling!” cried the knight.
Stanhope sprung from his seat, and caught her in his
arms; and it was several minutes before she sufficiently recovered
to dispense with his assistance; and then, upon her
pale, sad, lovely features, rested an expression of painful,
hopeless anguish.
“Oh! omnibus modis miser sum!” groaned Sir Walter,
wringing his hands. “See, my friend, what it is to be
guilty of a crime! see how retribution reaches us, even
through those we love!”
“What do you mean, Mr. Clendennan?” inquired the
young Doctor, with a look of startled surprise.
“It is painful to tell you!” answered the Baronet, with
a gloomy brow and quivering lip; “but, under the circumstances,
I feel you have a right to know. Rosalind, my
dear child—had you not better retire, while I communicate
this terrible secret?”
“No, dear father—no—I would remain!” she feebly replied,
burying her face in her handkerchief, while Stanhope
looked from one to the other in amazement.
“Be it so, then!” said the Knight, averting his face from
the inquiring glance of his wondering guest.
A few moments of breathless silence ensued, during which
Sir Walter seemed struggling to fortify his mind for the
painful disclosure. Then, in an unsteady voice, he resumed:
“Dr. Stanhope, I am about to tell you a tale that
has not passed my lips for years; I am about to mention
names that have long been forbidden to my ears; in short,
shrink from me with abhorrence; but in mercy, I pray
you, bring not my own guilty acts to bear upon that gentle
being by your side! who is as pure as truth, and as innocent
of the wrong as the angels in Heaven.”
“Be your deeds what they may, Mr. Clendennan, no
wrong that you have done, shall weigh against the love I
bear your noble daughter!” said Stanhope, with a kind of
proud enthusiasm.
“God bless you, for those words!” exclaimed Sir Walter.
“Look up, sweet Rosalind! be not cast down!” whispered
the lover, throwing an arm around her slender and
graceful form. “Remember, dearest,” he continued, “we
are pledged to each other, for weal or for woe!”
She trembled, and wept, but did not reply, and the
Knight continued:
“In the first place, it is proper I should inform you, of
what probably you are ignorant, that I am of noble birth,
and still hold the title of Baronet.”
Stanhope gave a start of surprise.
“But I am no better for that,” pursued the wretched
man, “and have long since cast aside the hollow honor. In
this glorious land of freedom, you may thank your God,
every honest man is noble, and needs no long descent from
a blood-stained favorite of some grasping, semi-barbarous
monarch, to give him equal rank among the proudest of
those who rule the state and govern one of the mightiest
nations of earth! No man, sir, is the better for a title;
and since I came to this country, I have disused mine. By
his heart and his intellect should every man be known and
judged, and not by that which comes from an ancestor,
however worthy that ancestor may have been. It was
wise in the framers of your constitution, aiming as they
did at liberty and equal rights, to sweep away the worthless,
namely: hollow titles and hereditary possessions. It belongs
to the march of progress, for every man to regard
every man as his equal, and no man as his superior; and
it is this true principle, instilled into the youth of this
country, which makes each generation a generation of freemen,
and worthy successors of those who have passed
away; and it is this proud feeling of independence and
equal rights, united with a general education of the masses,
which will perpetuate the liberties of this mighty country,
till thrones, monarchs, and titles, shall be known as things
which were, and as belonging to an age of comparative
barbarism and physical rule. Sir! America has the proud
distinction of giving to the world the first true liberty
which mankind has ever enjoyed; and the time is coming
—I may not live to see it, nor you—but the time is surely
coming, when she will give benign laws to the down-trodden
of the old world, as she now gives hope; and when to say,
`I am an American,' will be a greater honour, than to
say, `I am an Emperor!' ”
The Knight paused, and for a moment a kind of enthusiastic
glow rested on his care-worn, haggard features;
but this was quickly succeeded by a shade of gloom; and
he added, in an altered tone:
“Ah me! I have digressed, and must return to a painful
subject.”
He then went on to detail to the young physician those
terrible events, already known to the reader, which had so
embittered the closing years of his life, and which were
now, through deep, unceasing remorse, dragging him down,
step by step, to the cold and silent tomb. Stanhope
listened, with painful interest, without interruption or
reply, till Sir Walter had concluded his sad tale. Once,
when the Knight first mentioned the name of Norbury,
to speak; but he bethought himself in the same instant,
and made no remark.
“And now, sir, that you know my secret,” said the
Baronet, in conclusion; “now that you know, from my own
lips, what a wretch I have been and am; now that you
know the source of my misery, and the unhappiness of my
sweet daughter—who has, may Heaven bless her! ever
clung to me with the most unselfish affection, and striven
to lift the desolation from my guilt-burdened soul; now
that you know all—what say you now? Are your feelings
still unchanged toward my gentle Rosalind!”
“No, dear sir!” replied Newton, with a manly glow,
as he turned to the trembling Rosalind, and gently took,
her hand—“my feelings are not unchanged—for now do I
love her more than ever; and it shall be the study of my
life, not only to make her happy, but, if possible, to cause
her to forget she has ever known sorrow!”
“God bless you!” returned the Knight, with a moist eye
and quivering lip; and he turned aside his face, to conceal
his emotion.
At this moment, pale with excitement, Mrs. Wyndham
burst into the room.
“At last,” she cried, “we have a clue to the robbery!”
and to the utter astonishment of all, she displayed the
missing necklace of Rosalind.
| CHAPTER XXV.
GLEAMS OF LIGHT. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |