21. CHAPTER XXI.
We were very soon able to read her destiny.
We carried her on shore to die! Her career of
youth and happiness was short indeed. The
shot was in her breast and fatal. We spread a
couch for her of leaves and bushes, beneath the
shelter of a close copse of evergreens, and covered
her with the grey overcoat which had disguised
me in my flight. We did not need to tell
her that we had no hope. She felt by certain
instincts that we should have none.
“Henry, I am dying,” she said to me, as her
father wandered off. I know not what I said in
reply;—something, perhaps, which I meant to be
consolatory,—some one of those idle common-places,
in which the bystander would deceive
others, when he cannot deceive himself.
“No!” she continued; “I have no hope but
that we shall meet again. That is my hope and
my prayer. Oh! my Henry, pray for it,—pray
for me! It is not so hard to die with such a
hope,—but I fear, Henry, I tremble. I am not,
I have not been good enough to die—I loved the
world too much—I loved you too much, my
Henry. God forgive me,—but was not this the
punishment? It was a short-lived rapture, my
Henry,—Oh! how very short!”
I buried my face in the leaves. I could not
speak—nay, I could not weep. The fountain of
tears seemed utterly dry. The old man returned
and kneeled beside her with me. She was sinking
into stupor, with occasional awakenings—
awakenings of a higher and more spiritual life.
She spoke of things, to us, as it seemed, wildly,
but no doubt they had meaning for finer senses.
How slowly, how sadly went that night away.
It was a pure and gentle night—blessed with
many stars, that kept trooping overhead in noiseless
march, and looking down stealthily above us
with their strange sad eyes. There was a slight
breeze, that swayed the trees around us with a
not unpleasant and spiritual murmur; and the
chafing of the creek upon the little dark beach,
along whose slippery edges we had struggled with
our precious burthen, mingled a most unseemly
but faint music with the strain. I remained close
beside her all the night, but she ceased after
awhile to be conscious of my presence. She had
sunk into a condition something like sleep. Towards
daylight she roused herself.
“Where are you, Henry? I see you not. I
feel much better,—but I do not see you. Come
to me.”
“I am here, dear Helen.”
“Why do I not see you, then?”
“Your hands are in mine—it is my lip that is
pressing on your cheek.”
“Something is over my eyes—father,—Henry
—take the cloak from my face that I may see
you. I am better now!”
And so speaking she died! I do think she was
better then—better then, and blessed! She was
certainly with God!
