 | CHAPTER V. Redwood |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
And meet perhaps never again.”
Cowper.
As the day closed, on which Mr. Redwood's
journey had been so suddenly
suspended, the full-orbed moon rose
above the summit of the highest hills
that border the eastern shore of Champlain.
Not a vestige of the storm remained,
not a cloud stained the clear vault of
heaven, and the scene looked the more
beautiful as contrasted with its recent
turbulence. The vapour was condensed
on the low grounds, and instead of impeding
the rays of the “bright queen
some favourite spots with a silvery
mantle; and the broad lake, glad to be
relieved from the stern shadows that
shrouded it, smiled and dimpled in the
rich flood of light that fell on its bosom,
and reflected in its clear mirror the pasture-hills,
covered with social herds, that
descended to its margin; and the water-loving
willow, the chesnut with its horizontal
branches and pendant blossoms,
and the little trig-birch that shadowed its
brim. The location of the farm-houses
planted here and there on the surrounding
hills was marked by the tall Lombardy
poplar, which through our country-towns
is every where the sign of a
habitation. The moon-beams played
on the white dwelling of Mr. Lenox,
which had an air of prosperity and
refinement above any of its neighbours,
from the ample, well fenced fields
around it, a colony of barns behind it,
and a neat little court-yard containing
and vines skilfully guided around the
windows, and all enclosed by a curiously
wrought fence, on which the village
architect had exhausted all the cunning
of his trade. Mr. Lenox's family had
retired to their several apartments, excepting
those who were appointed to
keep their vigils with the sick stranger.
He had complained of the closeness of
the air, and Deborah had opened doors
that communicated by a narrow passage
with another apartment. She had then
stationed herself near the door, where,
after a few moments, her loud breathing
announced that she was in a profound
sleep. Mr. Redwood observed a female
sitting in the passage and obscured by
its shadows, who seemed to be stationed
there to act as a prompter to Deborah,
for whenever he was restless she awoke
the sleeper. In the opposite room he
perceived the body of the young man
he had heard spoken of, the head was
which the full-moon shone so brightly,
that every object was almost as distinctly
seen as by the light of day. At another
time, or in health, Mr. Redwood would
have been quite unmoved by such a
spectacle, for death has no heart-stirring
associations to him who deems that the
“spirit shall vanish into soft air, and we
shall be hereafter as though we had never
been;” but there are few minds that are
independent of the condition of the animal;
and Mr. Redwood, weakened by
his sufferings, and his imagination stimulated
by a large dose of laudanum that
had excited instead of composing him,
felt himself yielding to the power of
busy and bitter fancies. The light graceful
figure of the young female as she gently
moved to awaken the amazon, seemed
to touch some secret spring of his imagination,
and once, as he fell into a dreamy
state, the wife of his youth was near
him, but cold and silent, as the dead
and when he started and awoke and saw
the young female standing like a statue
in the door-way, he identified her with
his vision and exclaimed, “for God's
sake speak to me.” Deborah was awakened
by the sound, and her coarse voice
inquiring what he wanted, restored him
at once to realities. She gave him at
his request a composing draught, and
again resumed her station, and saying
she believed she had been almost asleep,
she resumed instantly her harsh nasal
sounds; the only sounds that broke the
stillness of the night, save the falling of
the swollen drops of water as they rolled
from leaf to leaf on the branches of the
trees about the window.
By degrees Mr. Redwood became
composed, and was just yielding himself
to nature's best medicine, when his
attention was aroused by the sound of
light footsteps approaching the house.
He heard the latch of an outer door
considered a superfluity,) and a young
girl glided into the opposite room. Mr.
Redwood saw that she passed, observed
but not molested by his attendant. His
attention was now thoroughly excited.
She lingered for a moment, apparently
from irresolution or timidity, and then
throwing aside a shawl in which she had
muffled herself, she knelt beside the
body of the young man, and removing
the covering from his face, she gazed
intently upon it: the light fell on her
own, still beautiful, though distorted
and almost convulsed with the tumult
of her feelings. After remaining for a
few moments motionless, she laid her
burning forehead on the cold breast of
the young man, and sobbed passionately.
The young lady who had been a passive
spectator of the poor girl's involuntary
grief, now advanced to shut the door,
apparently with the purpose of sheltering
her from the observation of the
and unable to repress his curiosity,
called to entreat her to permit it to remain
open. The loud sobs of the girl
awakened the grandmother of the deceased,
who, reluctant to separate herself
for a moment from the body of her
grandson, had insisted on performing
herself the customary duty of watching
with the dead; but overcome with her
grief and infirmities, she had fallen asleep.
She recognised immediately in the afflicted
girl, the object of her child's youthful
and constant affections; whose girlish
coquetries and caprices had been the
first cause of that “inward disease,”
which Deborah had pronounced the
occasion of his death. She advanced to
her with trembling steps, and laying her
hand on the girl's head, and stroking
back her beautiful hair, “poor silly
child,” she said in a pitiful tone, “you
have come too late: once his heart would
have leaped at a word from you, but he
Anne, and for that I cannot help loving
you;” and she stooped and kissed the
girl, who was awed into silence by her
unexpected appearance, and her calm
tone. “A grief have you been to him,
Anne; but the Lord changed his mourning
into joy, for when friend and lover
forsook him, then he turned to the sure
friend. Oh,” she continued, “he was
my last earthly hope, the staff of my
age; he was good, always good, but—”
and the tears poured down her pale
wrinkled face, “but it was his adversities
that made him wise unto salvation.
Sorrow upon sorrow, cloud upon cloud,
and he from the first such a feeling creature.”
Mrs. Allen's lamentation was
interrupted by the hysterical sobbings
of the penitent girl, “My poor child,”
she said, in a compassionate tone, “do
not break your heart; sore mourning
is it indeed for a wrong done to the dead,
but it was not you, Anne that killed
of it; then came his parent's losses, his
father's death, and his mother's; but all
these were dust on the balance; time to
eternity compared with the backsliding
of Emily; his root withered when this
branch was lopped off. Oh, my dear
boy, how often have I heard you say
you would die for her if thereby you
could bring her back from her idolatry.”
Here the aged mourner was again interrupted,
and all were startled by the
rumbling of an approaching waggon;
the young lady quick as thought, flew
to the window. “They are here,” she
exclaimed; and then turning to the old
woman, “I entreat you dear, dear Mrs.
Allen,” she said “to leave the room;
indeed you are not able to see them
to-night.”
“Oh, Ellen, I care not for myself,
say not a word; this may be the Lord's
set time to call home the wanderer; I
will not shrink from the trial, if it was
setting her sin before her.”
“But not now, Mrs. Allen, surely not
now; this is not the time to harrow up
the poor girl's feelings; consider for one
moment she has yet to learn Edward's
death; she is exhausted with her
journey, spare her, spare yourself to-night.”
“Ellen you know not what you
ask,” replied the old woman, who
seemed to gather strength and energy
to obey what she regarded as a call of
duty. “Are we not,” she asked, “to
pluck out the right eye, to pluck off
the right arm, if thereby we may save
the soul? Ellen, I will speak to her;
and if she is not dead to natural affection,
the light of that pale still face
will send my words home to her
heart.”
In vain Ellen argued and entreated.
Mrs. Allen seemed persuaded, or as she
expressed herself, she felt that now, if
of the child from captivity.
Debby, roused at the near approach
of the waggon, and again said, “she
did not know but she had been dosing;”
and, listening to the bustle in the opposite
apartment, “what does all this
mean?” said she; “I thought Ellen
was fit to be trusted, is there no discretion
in a young head?”
Mr. Redwood assured her that the
young lady had not failed in her duty in
the least; that the door had been continued
open at his request. “Oh well, well,
it is all very well: it is a good rule never
to cross the sick in their notions.” While
making this sage observation, she advanced
to the window. “For the land's
sake,” she exclaimed, “what has tempted
Susan Allen to come with Emily! It
will go nigh to break the old woman's
heart to see her. Ah, there will be no
good come of it, for there is that old
grim master-devil, brother Reuben.”
“In the name of heaven,” exclaimed
Mr. Redwood, “who is Emily? and
who is Susan? am I dreaming, or
what does it all mean?”
“No man, you are not dreaming, but
I guess in your right mind. Emily
Allen is a young girl twin sister to
Eddy there in the other room; she has
been befooled by the shaking quakers,
at least by her Aunt Susan, that has
been one these thirty years; and Susan
is a half crazy woman and half saint;
and there is the old woman that is
mother to Susan and grandmother to
Emily, that is taking on about them as
if they were sold to the evil one. But,
Sir, we are disobeying Doctor Bristol's
orders, and that an't honouring the
physician with the honour that is due
to him:” and thus concluding, she proceeded
to close the door that led through
the passage. Mr. Redwood had been
beguiled of the tedious sleepless hours,
by the curious spectacle of natural feeling,
modes of society, and he was now
determined to see the new characters
that were entering on the scene. He
entreated Deborah to permit the door
to remain open, and she, after examining
his pulse, and looking at his eye to
detect any incipient wildness, decided
that it would not be indiscreet to gratify
him.
To convey to our readers a clear idea
of this scene, we shall describe it as it
really occurred, and not as it appeared
to Mr. Redwood, who by the dim light,
and at the distance he was laid from the
parties, was compelled to be satisfied
with a very imperfect observation.
Ellen opened the outer door for the
two females, who entered dressed in the
shaker uniform, only remarkable for its
severe simplicity and elaborate neatness.
Both wore striped blue and white cotton
gowns, with square muslin handkerchiefs
pinned formally over the bosom,
with muslin caps with straight borders,
and white as the driven snow. Susan,
the elder, was between forty and fifty
years of age: she was tall and erect;
and though rather slender in proportion
to her height, well-formed. There was
an expression of command in all her
movements that seemed natural to her,
and sate gracefully upon her. Her face
had the same character of habitual independence
and native dignity: the hues
of youth had faded, but a connoisseur
would have pronounced her at a single
glance to have been handsome. Her
features were large, and all finely formed;
her eye, there, where the “spirit has its
throne of light,” beamed with intelligence
and tenderness. It was softened
by a rich dark eye-lash, and of that equivocal
hue, between gray and hazel,
which seems best adapted to show every
change of feeling; but vain is this description
of colour and shape. It was
passions, of tender and repressed affections,
of disciplined serenity, and a soft
melancholy, that seemed like the shadow
of past sufferings, which altogether
constituted the power and interest of
her remarkable face.
The younger female was short and
slightly formed. Her features were
small; her blue eyes, light hair, and fair
complexion, would have rendered her
face insipid but that it was rescued by an
expression of purity and innocence, and
a certain appealing tender look, that
suited well her quiet and amiable character.
As they entered, Ellen threw her arms
around the younger sister, exclaiming
in a tone of the tenderest concern, “dear
Emily, why did you not come sooner?”
Emily trembled like an aspen leaf, and
her heart beat as if it would have leapt
from her bosom, but she made no reply.
The elder sister grasped Ellen's hand,
interpreted Ellen's silence and sadness:
“I foresaw,” she continued, “that our
coming would be worse than in vain:”
then turning to her young companion,
she said, “put thy hand on thy mouth,
and be still, my child. The mighty One
hath done it, strive not against Him, for
he giveth not account of any of his matters.”
A loud groan was heard in the apartment
of the dead. Susan Allen started,
and exclaimed, “is my mother here?
then, mother Anne be with me!” She
paused for a moment, and added in a
calm tone, “fear not, Emily, my child,
in your weakness strength shall be made
perfect; we shall not be left without the
testimony.” Her words were quick,
and her voice raised, as if she felt that
she was contending against rebellious
nature. She entered the room with a
slow and firm step. Emily followed
her, but it seemed not without faltering,
and appeared to sustain half her weight.
Her face was as pale as marble, and
as still.
“Pray speak to them, Mrs. Allen,”
whispered Ellen: “yes, speak to them,”
said Debby, in a voice of authority;
“what signifies it! they are your own
children, and there is no denying it.”
“They were my children, but they
have gone out from me, and are not of
me,” replied the old woman, in a voice
scarcely audible. “I am alone; they
are uprooted; I am as an old oak, whose
leaf has withered; judgment has come
out against me.”
“She is going clean distracted,”
whispered Debby to Ellen, “you can
do any thing with her; make her hear
to reason while she has any left, and
get her to go out of the room with
you.”
“No no,” said the old woman, who
had over-heard Debby's whisper, “have
and my soul is in travail for these
wanderers, to get them back to my
rest, and under my wing; but the Lord's
own peace is in my heart and none can
trouble that. Oh,” she continued,
bursting into tears, as she turned her
eyes from Emily to fix them on Susan,
“was it not enough that you were led
captive by Satan, enough for you to
put on his livery, but you must tempt
this child to follow you in your idolatries?”
Strong sensibility is perhaps
never extinguished; but Susan's was so
subdued that, obedient to the motion of
her will, it had soon returned to flow
in its customary channels. She replied
to her mother's appeal in her usual deliberate
manner. “The child is not my
captive, mother she has obeyed the
gospel,” and, added she, looking at
Emily with affectionate complacency,
“she has already travelled very far
out of an evil nature, and the believers
light, so clear is the testimony of
her life against all sin.” Susan had
an habitual influence over Emily; she
felt that she commanded the springs
that governed the mind of her timid
disciple. Emily felt it too, and was
glad to be saved from the efforts of
self-dependence. She approached Susan,
who had seated herself by the bed-side,
when her grandmother took her by the
hand, and drawing her towards her, she
said in a voice scarcely audible—for sorrow,
infirmity and despair almost deprived
her of utterance—“Oh, Emily
my child, my only child has she bewitched
you?” She drew the unresisting
girl towards the body of her
brother,—“there, look on him, Emily,
though dead, he yet speaketh to you, and
if nature is not quite dead in you, you
will hear him, he calls to you to break
to pieces your idols, and to come out
from the abominations of the land whither
Emily sighed heavily and wept, but said
nothing. Susan moved to the other side
of her, and seeming to lose the spirit of
controvesy in some gentle remembrance,
she said, “Edward was a good
youth, and lived up to the light he had.
There is one point where all roads
meet; one thing certain, mother,” she
added, an intelligent smile brightening
her fine face, “we shall all be judged
according to the light we have: some
have a small, and some a great privilege.”
“She has hit the nail on the head for
once,” whispered Debby to Ellen: “and
now Ellen, before they get into another
snarl, do separate them.”
Ellen's heart was full; she felt for all
the parties a very tender, and an almost
equal interest; and though she would
have rejoiced in Emily's renunciation
of her errors, she did not probably regard
the sincere adoption of them with
felt.
“My dear friends,” she said, gently
taking the hands of the mother and
daughter, and joining them, “there is
that in the face of your good Edward
that bears an admonition to all our
hearts, and teaches us all to remember
how often we are commanded to love
one another, and to be at peace one
with another. It was the beloved apostle
who said, `He that doeth good is of
God:' may not then those who try
to do his will, leave the rest to his
mercy.” There was the eagerness and
the authority of truth and goodness in
Ellen's voice, and manner, and words;
the spirit of love and of reconciliation;
and the troubled waters would have
been laid at rest, for the raised eye of
the old lady showed that true devotion
was working at her heart; and Susan
looked on her acquiescingly and approvingly;
and Emily's face shone with an
could not utter: but at this moment the
outer door again opened, and Reuben
Harrington, that one of “the brethren,”
whom Debby had characterized as the
“master-devil,” entered.
He seemed to have arrived at that
age, which the poet has characterized
as the period of self-indulgence; and
certainly he bore no marks of having
disobeyed the instincts of nature by any
mortifications of the flesh. He was of
a middling stature, inclining to corpulency;
with a sanguine complexion, a
low forehead deeply shaded with bushy
black hair, that absolutely refused to
conform to the sleekness of his order;
a keen gray eye, which had a peculiarly
cunning expression from a trick he had
early acquired, and of which he could
never rid himself, of tipping a knowing
wink; a short thick nose turning upward;
a wide mouth, with the corners
sanctimoniously drawn down, and a
of his nose. In short, he presented
a combination and a form to awaken
the suspicions of the most credulous,
and confirm the strongest prejudices
against a fraternity that would advance
such a brother to its highest honours—or,
to use their own phrase, to the dead.
Reuben advanced to the bedside quite
unceremoniously, and seemed to survey
the dead and the living with as much
indifference as if he did not belong to
their species. No one spoke to him,
nor did he speak, till his attention was
arrested by poor Anne, who had shrunk
away from the side of the bed, and sat
on a low chair at its foot enveloped in
her shawl, and sobbing aloud, apparently
unconscious that any one saw or
heard her. “Who is that young woman,”
inquired Harrington of Debby,
“that is making such an unseemly ado,
is she kin to the youth?”
“No!” uttered in her harshest voice,
was all the reply Debby vouchsafed.
“Some tie of a carnal nature, ha?”
pursued Harrington. “No such thing,”
said Debby, “Eddy was her sweetheart.”
“Yea, yea, that is just what I meant,
woman. Well,” he continued, with a
long drawn gutteral groan, “the children
of this world must bake as they
have brewed; they are in the transgression,
and they must drink the bitter
draught their own folly has mixed.”
After this consolatory harangue, he
turned from the bedside, and began not
humming, but shouting with the utmost
power of his voice, a shaker tune, at all
times sufficiently dissonant, and that now
in this apartment of death and sorrow
sounded like the howl of an infernal: to
this music he shuffled and whirled in
the manner which his sect call dancing
and labour worship.
“Stop your dumb pow-wow!” cried
Debby, seizing him by the arm with a
force that might have made a stouter
heart than Reuben's rejoice in the protection
of the convenient principle of
non-resistance.
“Nay, ye world's woman, let me
alone,” said he, extricating himself from
her grasp, and composing his neck-cloth,
which Deborah's rough handling
had somewhat ruffled; “know me for
a peaceable man, that wars not with
earthly powers.”
“True,” replied Debby, “your war
is with heavenly powers; but while
the Lord is pleased to spare the strength
of my right arm, I'll keep you peaceable.
Peaceable! indeed, one would
have thought all bedlam had been let
loose on us—peaceable! your yells almost
sacred the old lady's soul out of
her body.”
Poor Mrs. Allen, to whom Reuben's
singing had sounded like a shout of victory
seemed in danger of such a catastrophe.
She could scarcely raise her heavy eyelids,
and the low moaning sounds that
escaped her betrayed the infirmity of
age, and the grief that words cannot
express. Ellen renewed her entreaties
that she would retire to her own room.
No longer capable of resistance, she
silently acquiesced, and Ellen conducted
her to her bed, and watched over her, till
she perceived that her wearied nature
had sunk to repose. She then left her,
and was softly closing the door, when
she met Debby in the passage. “Now
child,” said Deborah, “it is time that for
once you should think a little of yourself;
go to bed and take a good nap;
there is no occasion for your going back
to that room; it is quiet enough there
now: poor little Ann stole away when
nobody saw her, and I got the old man
out, and gave him some victuals, and
he is making a hearty meal.”
“Where are Susan and Emily?” inquired
Ellen “they must need rest more
than I do.”
“Yes, poor souls, they need it enough,
but they will not take it; they are only
waiting for Reuben to go away again.”
“Away—before the funeral?”
“Yes, and I think Susan has the right
of it: she says `the dead need them not,
and they are no comfort to the living.'
And, to tell you the truth,” she added, in a
lower tone, “I suspect she is now afraid
to trust Emily here any longer. You
know she and our James always had a
notion for each other, and I guess Susan
has found it out too; for though she is
not much used to the world, she is a cute
woman by natur', and sees as far into a
millstone, as a'most any body. I marked
her looking at Emily when James came
into the room, for you must know he came
in just after you went out, and Emily's
face that was as white as curds before,
turned red to the very roots of her hair; and
did not take it to be sure, for that is
quite contrary to all shaker rules and
regulations; but she did not look the
least affronted.”
“I cannot think,” said Ellen, shaking
her head doubtfully, “that Emily has
any attachment to James. If she had,
why did she join the shakers?” “Why!
ah, that's more than I can tell. It passes
the skill of a rational creature to give
the whys and the wherefores of the
motions of you young girls. I would
as soon undertake to give a reason for
the shiftings of the wind. But I am
as sure that Emily Allen would rather
stay with James, than to go back to the
shakers, as that I know a southerly
breeze from a northwester.” “But,
Miss Deborah,” asked Ellen, apparently
still incredulous, “was there any thing
said that would warrant your conclusion?”
“Yes, a good deal was said, but very
But I did, however, hear James say,
`Oh, Emily, how can you bear to think
of all poor Edward felt for you, and of
your old grandmother, for it will certainly
kill her, and go back again to
those people?' mind you he did not say
a word about himself, but he looked
enough, and I am sure Emily understood
him, for girls are quick enough at
taking such ideas, and I saw the tears
gush from her eyes; and she said, `it is
a great cross, James, but I must bear
it.' Susan saw as much as I did, for
she seemed as uneasy as a bird when a
boy is robbing her nest. And she got
up and told Emily in her calm way, to
go with her to the kitchen fire. And
Emily followed her, and she will follow
her home, though with a heavy heart in
her bosom.”
`, But,” said Ellen, “Emily shall not
go against her inclination.”
“Ah there is the rub,” replied Debby.
people a mind to do what they would
hate to do for anybody else. I don't
know what it is, she is not a stern woman,
but it is a kind of nat'ral authority, as if
she was a born-queen.”
“She is very good, certainly,” said
Ellen as if trying to discover the secret
of Susan's power.
“There it is,” replied Debby, “there
is no getting such a grapple upon young
folks' hearts, without goodness. But
come, Ellen, there is no use in our standing
here paraphrasing the matter, do
you go to bed and I'll wait till this old
vulture has done eating, and see them
off, and then go back to the traveller's
room; the laudanum has put him to
sleep at last, and that is the best thing
for him.”
Ellen assured Deborah, that she would
comply with her wishes, after having
made one effort to detain Emily. Deborah
commended her zeal, but was quite
she could not persuade her to remain with
them now, she might suggest some considerations
that might weigh with her
afterwards. Debby thought “that looked
rational; but there was no calculating
with certainty upon such a feeble
piece; if Emily's head had been as
strong as her heart, she would never
have been led away by such fooleries.”
Sanguine hope is the privilege of the
young; and Ellen began her expostulations
with her ardour unimpaired by
Debby's suggestions. She appealed to
Emily's reason, and to her feelings for
a long time, without producing any sensible
effect. Both Susan and Emily
sate in a fixed posture, with their eyes
rivetted on the floor. At last the poor
girl, unable any longer to smother the
voice of nature, sobbed out, “what
shall I do? what ought I to do?”
“Resist to the death,” exclaimed
Susan, in a voice of authority. “It is a
way of escape. Come, Reuben,” she
added, turning to Harrington, “we cannot
tarry here in safety any longer.”
“I am ready to depart,” he replied,
for my deeaying nature is greatly refreshed
by this carnal food. I feared before I
took it, that, as the angel said to the
prophet Elijah, my journey had been too
great for me.”
“That is a small matter,” said Susan;
and then added in a lower tone, “Reuben,
the child's soul is at stake:” and she
followed him to the door, apparently to
hasten his preparations. Ellen availed
herself of this moment to ask Emily, at
the same time placing her hand on the
latch of the door that led into the apartment
of the deceased, “if she would not
once more look upon her brother?”
“Oh, yes,” said she, and for the first
time instinctively obeying the impulse of
her feelings, she darted through the
door: Ellen closed it after her without
it was best to leave her to the unassisted
workings of her natural affections. But
Susan, as soon as she returned from laying
her injunctions on Reuben's reading
what Ellen most wished, went to the
door, and said as calmly as she was able,
for her fears were increased by seeing
James Lenox standing beside Emily,
and eagerly addressing her, “Come, my
child, we wait for you, be not like a silly
dove without heart; take up your cross
again, a full cross though it may be, and
turn your back upon the world.” Emily,
after a short struggle, obeyed, but with
evident reluctance. It was manifest
that the cords which bound her were relaxed,
though not broken. Young
Lenox followed her to the door, and unobserved
even by Susan's watchful eye,
he thrust a paper into her hand, which,
without examining or offering to return
it, she slipped into her bosom. A person of
ordinary sagacity might have predicted,
eldest sister's power was dissolved, and
that though accident and habit, and the
natural submission of weakness, intellectual
or physical, to power, might detain
the youthful disciple in thraldom, it
would no longer be the service of a willing
heart. Emily took an affectionate
leave of Ellen; and Susan, after having
simply said, “Farewell,” turned and
added, “you meant well, Ellen — I
know you meant well; but you have
the voice of a charmer, and how should
I be justified if I suffered this young
child to be seduced from her obedience
to the gospel?”
“Promise me, at least,” said Ellen,
“that you will not constrain Emily to
remain among you; promise me that
you will suffer her to see and hear from
her friends.”
“Ellen,” replied Susan, in a tone of
solemnity bordering on displeasure,
“we have neither dungeons, bolts, nor
of the perishing body; but we
would bring all into the obedience of
the spirit; and,” she concluded, looking
at Emily with tearful eyes, “we would
keep them there, if watching and praying
can keep them: we have no other
means.”
“You promise then, what I ask?”
“I tell you, Ellen,” she replied,
“I need not promise. Emily is as free
as I am—as you are.”
“God grant that she may be,” said
Ellen, in a suppressed voice; and perceiving
that she could gain nothing
farther from the impracticable enthusiast,
she relinquished her hand, which
in her eagerness she had taken, and once
more bidding farewell, they parted. The
waggon drove away, and Ellen went to
her own apartment, of which she would
have been glad now to have been the
sole tenant. She had been too much
disturbed by the suffering of those she
sleep; and she sate down by an eastern
window, to ponder on the various feelings
of the heterogeneous group of
mourners that Edward's death had
brought together.
“Oh,” thought she, as she gazed at
the fair stars in their “quiet and orderly
courses,” and then at the clear still lake
in whose depths their beautiful images
seemed to sleep: “why is it that all nature
above us, and around is harmony,
while we are left to such conflicts. The
material world is performing the will of
its Creator; the glorious sun is ever on
its way, shining on the just and the unjust;
the obedient planets roll on in their
appointed paths; the clouds distil their
nourishing waters, and the winds are his
messengers as they pass, stirring the
leaves, and waving the ripening harvest.”
Ellen's reflections might have
led her to a solution of the mystery, satisfactory
to herself at least, but their
from Miss Redwood, who waking suddenly,
exclaimed, “good heavens, Miss
what's your name, are you up already?
do be good enough to go to bed again
—I can never sleep when any one is
hazing about my room; and close the
blind if you please, the light disturbs
me.”
Ellen smiled, but not thinking it important
to explain the cause of her being
up at an hour that Miss Redwood
deemed so unseasonable, she let fall a
neatly woven rush curtain, which sufficiently
excluded the intrusion of the
approaching day; and, laying herself
on her bed, she was soon in a sleep that
Miss Redwood might have envied.
| CHAPTER V. Redwood | |