University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
JUNIA FULFILS HER INTENTION.

She came to the relief of Richard's spirits, and, as it
were, to the care of his hands; and in the last, perhaps,
carried out the idea of the first, since a little outward oversight
of this sort, and secular responsibility, could do him
no harm.

Simon brought her in the best manner Winkle could
devise. She entered softly and quietly, with an air of lofty
purpose, united to a sense of delicate position; her face
was not so much sickly pale, as subdued by spiritual concern;
her voice was sweet, but evening-like; her eye was
mellow with love and enthusiasm. She kissed Roxy and
the children.

After tea, she sat in the rocking-chair in the parlor.
Junia had a more southern cast than Violet; she was born,
her Grandfather used to say, in a warmer month. She had
dark eyes, and small and firm lips. The twilight, — that
blush with which Night introduces her starry train to the
world, — from over dun hills, crossing silent hollows and
entering the room through the cool trees Richard had
planted in the yard, — was reflected in the pure and exalted
fervor of her countenance. Was she, as one of the clouds
that floated in that burning expanse, turned for a brief
moment to flesh? Was she a Daughter of God, ready to
be offered on some altar of human sorrow? Her thin
fingers, the delicacy of her frame, and even the sculptured
precision of her features, indicated, that if of mortal essence,

purged of mortal defilement, she was even then undergoing
translation.

“I have but one duty in life, Richard,” she said, “and
that is to thee; my next is to join the Immortals. The
recompense and fulfilment of my love, that has been growing
in the lonely places of thought, like the pitcher-plant,
and filling its cup with the dew and rain of an ideal good,
is to pour its contents on your parched life, and to see thee
blessed, thou greatly noble, and greatly wronged one!”

Almost as if she were divinely inspired, Richard was
subdued before Junia, and ventured no remonstrance to the
course of her inclinations.

She had changed since he saw her; she was feebler, but
more resolved, — less unreserved in her love, but more self-forgetful
in its intents, — very cheerful and very serious.

In two or three days, having worn off the fatigue of
her journey, she expressed a desire to visit the grave of
Violet.

Simon, who had risen from stable-boy to hack-driver, who
loved to serve Richard, and continued to sing, with new
pathos to Richard's ear, that melancholy refrain, like a fragment
from the ruin of some old dirge which he carried about
with him, was ordered to bring up the invalid coach.

Junia entered the parlor from her chamber, clad in white;
her dress and gloves were white, and a white rose-bud
adorned her hair. There was a singularly clear and luminous
effect in her person and attire; throughout, an unusual
carefulness showed, and her appearance was suggestive
almost of a bridal occasion, — an illusion which the pallid
ardor of her look rather heightened than destroyed. Fair to
the senses, her aspect was still more affecting to the imagination;
and Richard, sacredly moved, drew from under his

vest, where he had so sadly worn it, the small golden cross,
which he reverently hung on her neck.

Simon's song was heard at the gate, and Junia, throwing
on her bonnet and shawl, left the house. Richard would
have done more than hand her into the carriage, — he would
go with her; but she said, “Not now.” He could do little
else than listen to the wailing cavatina of the boy, as he
drove off with the precious minister to his peace.

She was driven to Rosemary Dell. Under the shadows
of pines, and along circling walks, she wended her way to
the spot where Violet lay. A willow hung over the enclosure;
and those flowers that gave the sleeper her name, in
lowly beauty — little Vestal-fires of Nature — cherished
the sanctity of her grave. Junia leaned upon the willow,
and wept; in weeping she vented her sisterly sorrow, and
at the same time, as it were, moistened and bedewed the
springs of her own feeling. What went forth in sadness,
like the exhalation of troubled water, returned in gentle
showers of consolation and gladness to the wasting verdure
of her soul. “Soon, soon,” she said, “I shall be with you,
thou blessed one! I thank thee that I can weep for thee, —
I feel how nearly I am at one with thee! A mission which
thou wouldst bless, for the friend of us both, and for one
whom, oh my sister, thou couldst have loved, — an injured
one of earth, — is the brief distance I must travel, before I
come to thee, — and to you, Father, Mother, — and to Thee,
oh Saviour of men!”

Having finished her prayer, she returned to the carriage.

Did she perceive that Miss Eyre was in the cemetery,
alone, and apparently thoughtful and pensive, — like some
penitent Spirit of Evil, meditating among those vestiges of
decay? She was there; and with steadfast eye, — nor could
it be otherwise than with deep sensitiveness of heart, —

behind contiguous shrubbery, she beheld the emotion of
Junia. She followed her as she left the place, and overheard
her direction to Simon, to Governor Dennington's.

We shall take the liberty to enter with Junia at the
Governor's, and while she waits reception, look at the state
of feeling the Family is in.

Miss Eyre had been summoned as a rejoinder to Climper.
She denied Clover's complicity with her affairs; — this to
Mrs. Melbourne. But to Miss Rowena, who questioned her
more at length, she admitted, not that her wrongs were less,
but that, her delicacy being greater, Clover appeared, and
not only recommended, but potentially and portentously
urged her to the course she had taken. Herein she spoke
absolute truth.

The Family, then, we cannot say were in a state of
doubt, but in a state of certainty, with its surface somewhat
ruffled. Mrs. Melbourne, however, was ruffled painfully, —
Cousin Rowena pleasantly. The latter rejoiced in the
agitation Climper had given the Family, and was glad
to feel anything like a disturbance in the career of those
terrible convictions down which she was rapidly tending.
Melicent, about whom all the interest and all the moods of
the Family gravitated, must listen to varied accounts, and
be torn by contending emotions.

Miss Eyre having become domiciled equally in Mrs.
Melbourne's heart and rooms, by a side door, entered the
house soon after Junia, and went to the chamber of her
friend.

Junia inquired for Melicent, whom she had seen in
Violet's sickness. Melicent did not recollect Junia. She
extended her hand to the pale figure before her, whose mingled
look of anxiety and earnestness, as well as the shadowy
features and pure attire, arrested her attention and kindled

her fancy. “I am Junia,” said the latter. “When Violet
was sick, you were with us; you laid flowers on her bier.”

Melicent, moved by this recall of the past, and the vision
of the present, affectionately saluted her.

“I wish to speak of Richard.” Junia said this with an
emphasis that quite thrilled Melicent, who, at once surprised
and awed, echoed, “Richard!” In a moment, collecting
herself, she said, “If of that, come to my chamber,” —
whither they went.

“I came,” said Junia, when they were seated, “to interdece
for Richard. I know him to be pure and good. I
have long known him so. And you, Melicent, — you have
known him so. Your heart, your memory, your reason,
remind you of nothing else.”

Melicent became pale, — paler, even, than the speaker
before her.

“Do not think of that, — do not confuse yourself with
it at all,” continued Junia. “He has erred, — he may have
sinned; but his sin is not beyond forgiveness or removal.
It is lost in the depth of his piety, — it is swept away by
his virtues, as a leaf on the river.”

“I do not think of that,” answered Melicent, strongly
agitated; “I think beyond that, of him.”

“And he loves you!”

“Loves me?” cried Melicent.

“Loves you,” replied Junia, “with unmixed, unchanging
love, — loves as purely as an angel in heaven might love.”

“How can you know that? — alas! alas!”

“I know him,” replied Junia; “how, I cannot tell, — I
dare not tell. I know him, as your own heart knows him;
— and tell me, do you love him?”

“Ah!” cried Melicent; “where is that in my deepest

heart which I once was, and worshipped, and lost, and
missed?”

“I recall it,” said Junia; “I bring it back.”

“To have once doubted,” said Melicent, “not that, for
that might be; but to doubt him, to fear him; to feel the
approach of vague, invisible possibilities, which smite and
stagger you, when you can do nothing; to have the venomous,
bitter uncertainties of things, like reptiles from the Dark
Mountains, get into your heart, and be shut in there, —
there, where a woman's longing, and hope, and ideal, are all
kept; to be once so disturbed and so sickened; — oh, what
is woman? What are you? What am I?”

“Hear me,” said Junia; “listen to me. I speak as a
woman.”

“A Great Evil,” rejoined Melicent, “has befallen me;
the Good Father knows why. Its terror chills my frame;
its darkness obscures my thought. O, Parent of the Universe,
teach thy child submission, — guide her heart!”
She started from her chair, and with mingled despair,
mournfulness, and hope, walked the room, wringing her
hands wildly. She flung herself on a seat in the embrasure
of the window, where the heavy tapestry concealed her face,
but could not hide the voice of her anguish.

Junia rose, and deliberately laid off her bonnet and shawl.
She approached Melicent, and solemnly knelt at her feet.
As if a flash of pathos, inspired by piety, had knelt before her,
the white array, ghostly complexion, and golden cross of
Junia, mystically aroused Melicent.

“What is this I see?” she exclaimed.

“The lover and the bride of Richard,” calmly replied
Junia. “Such I plead with thee for him —”

“What do I hear?” Melicent cried, still more excited.

“Listen, oh best beloved of the best beloved! I love

Richard; — I loved him for his greatness and his purity; I
loved him with the instinct of girlhood, — I have loved him
with the meditativeness of womanhood. I love you, oh
precious sister of my soul! because you love him. I know
what you feel; I share your sufferings. He, too, suffers. I
have been near his heart; I have heard its lonely anguish;
I have felt its tortured throbs. I love his happiness; and
his happiness is your love; and the happiness of you both
is your mutual reünion. I am his bride, but through you.
My love for him I give to you. Take it into your heart, —
let it be your love! Let it survive in the depth of your
affection! Let it shed its light upon the darkness that surrounds
you! And when, in the rapture of being, you can call
him your own, remember, oh remember, that one, young and
inexperienced, — too susceptible, perhaps too constant, — that
Junia loved him too!”

“How can I support this?” exclaimed Melicent. “In
what heavenly transition do I awake? Art thou a mortal?”

“I am simple Junia,” replied the other; “but hear me;
— I am brided to Richard's and your felicity. I put on this
little array, such as a fond girl's heart might choose; clothing
not my body, but an irrepressible promise of things in
my soul; clothing, it may be, some old, pleasant feelings,
that once wished to be the bride of Richard; clothing, too,
the brief remaining hour of my life for marriage with the
ideal vision which your union with him is to my mind, —
the union of Wealth and Worth, — of Refinement and
Nobleness, — of Richard and Melicent!”

“Dearest Junia!” cried Melicent; “purest of beings!
Let me embrace you, — let me fold to my heart its long-lost
tranquillity!”

“I perish, — I die!” answered Junia. “The voice of the
oriole has been heard. My happiness is complete when

yours begins. I am called to the spirit land, — let me
bless you and Richard ere I go — ”

Her voice faltered; blood on her lips betrayed the violent
hemorrhage that succeeded. She fainted; and while Melicent
was attempting to support her, an outbursting sob, as
of some one in the chamber, was heard. It was Miss Eyre,
who instantly, but trembling with emotion, advanced, and
assisted in carrying the languid frame to the bed.

Miss Eyre had followed Junia, — followed her with
more than usual concern, and even approached the chamber
of Melicent, where, moved by the impassioned language
within, she opened the door, and beheld Junia at Melicent's
feet, and heard her words.

She was at least awed. Solemn, tender, delicate, she
exerted herself to bring back the spirit that seemed so suddenly
and so affectingly to have vanished.

Opening her eyes, Junia said, “Ah, Plumy Alicia! and
you too, — you to bless the hour, — you to make us all
happy?”

The house was aroused. Madam Dennington, confined
to her room by some illness of the season, could no more
than give directions for the sick one. Miss Eyre summoned
Mrs. Melbourne, who was always kind to the unfortunate,
and who forgot everything else in an occasion like
the present.

Dr. Chassford, the family physician, was called, who,
with other specifics, ordered quietness and rest. His manner
showed, what all felt, that Junia could not live long.

“I am quiet,” she said, a little while afterwards. “I
have unburdened my heart, and I rest.”

But she grew weaker, and could not be moved. “Send
word,” she said, “to Willow Croft, that I cannot return today,
but not to be alarmed for me.”