Martin Merrivale his X mark |
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| 27. | XXVII.
CLARA AND MARTHA. |
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 | XXVII.
CLARA AND MARTHA. Martin Merrivale |  |
27. XXVII.
CLARA AND MARTHA.
ON a rustic bench by the wayside,
at the foot of Summer
Hill, the late companion of
Caleb and Alice sat her down
to rest. The pallor of her
face had deepened to an almost
deathly hue, and the small hectic
spot on either cheek burned a still
more fiery scarlet, as she paused
there to gather breath, and to rally all her
faculties for the task before her.
“My God!” she moaned, at length,
pressing her temples. “This is madness! Why am I here?
What shall I do? Fool! fool!”
The strong resolution that had so long stayed her ebbing energies,
like a dam across a stream, seemed suddenly to have given
way before the strain and pressure of the crisis that had come.
She looked furtively around, to assure herself that she was unobserved,
then started from her seat, and with her head bowed
down, as if in fear and shame, set out to fly. But at that
moment, a clatter of horses' hoofs startled her, and, glancing
down the road, she saw a gentleman and lady galloping up towards
hand upon her heart, as if a sharp pain had pierced her, she
shrank back, and stood, palpitating and breathless, by the wall,
while the beautiful Louise Merrivale dashed past her, accompanied
by the gallant Mr. Milburn.
Again her aspect changed. She stood erect like a queen.
There was desperation in her step, as she followed the equestrians
up the hill; and the wilful curving of her lip, and the intense
light enkindled in her eye, told that now she was strong — that
neither fear, nor shame, nor death itself, should turn her from her
purpose.
The riders had disappeared before she reached the house; but
Mr. Milburn, who had remarked her in the road, saw her again
from a window as she came up the avenue, and frowned black as
night upon her approach.
Perhaps the look he gave her occasioned that wild start, as she
was about to mount the piazza steps; but not even his frown
could deter her then: gathering her womanhood about her like
a garment, she walked unshrinkingly up to the door and rang.
“Who can that strange creature be?” murmured Louise, holding
her riding hat in her hand.
The gentleman made some careless reply, as he selected a
choice cigar from an elegant case, and wet it with his lips.
“Why, what is the matter?” asked Louise.
“Matter? with me?” cried Mr. Milburn, laughing.
“I never saw you look so pale in my life. Isn't he pale,
mother?”
“I think he is very red,” replied Mrs. Merrivale, entering the
room just in time to see the fire come into his face. “The ride
— or something else — has given him a fine color.”
“It may be the ride — it may be the proximity of your daughter's
radiant countenance,” observed the gallant Theodore.
A person to see Miss Merrivale was at that moment
announced.
“It 's that woman! What can she want with me?”
“Show her in, and we 'll find out,” said Mr. Milburn; “and
I 'll postpone smoking till after dinner.”
He spoke lightly, but there was a meaning in his tone, and in
his cool, determined look, which did not escape the eye of Louise.
“It can't be for you,” remarked Mrs. Merrivale, sweeping from
the room in her energetic way. “I think I know who it is.
It is a woman who always says Miss for Missis.”
Of course, she was mistaken in the visitor. Miss Merrivale,
not Mrs. Merrivale, was in reality called for. But the mother
was a person who never scrupled to act in her daughter's place,
when it suited her purpose to do so; and now, something in the
visitor s manner awakening her curiosity, she straightway conducted
her to her own chamber.
“Miss Merrivale is engaged at present. Perhaps you can do
your errand to me.”
“Are you her mother?”
Receiving an affirmative reply, the visitor searched her face
with a keen glance, then cast her restless eyes upon the floor.
With all her selfishness, and pride, and will, Mrs. Merrivale possessed
a certain hearty benevolence, which answered readily to
the appeals of the distressed. Her countenance betrayed that
weakness — as the colonel termed it; the visitor saw it with her
woman's intuitive sight, and the discovery determined her to treat
with the mother, before disclosing her business to the daughter.
“I called,” said she, hesitatingly, after a deep breath — “I
about the floor, then suddenly flashed full upon Mrs. Merrivale
— “about your husband.”
“About my husband!”
“He met with an accident not long since.”
“Last winter,” returned Mrs. Merrivale, eying her visitor with
increasing interest. “He received dangerous injuries in a manner
which still remains a mystery.”
“That mystery I have come to clear up.”
“How? You know who the assailant was —'
“Yes, and what set him on,” said the visitor, no longer hesitating,
but swayed by the spirit of her purpose; and with her
wan face and hectic cheek she met the almost masculine, hard,
scrutinizing gaze of the suspicious woman with whom she had to
deal. “It is a long story,” she went on, “but I will make it
brief. It is a story of sorrow and wrong, but I will tell it without
a tear. It is a story which lays open a wounded heart, and
shows the consuming fire in one forsaken soul, — but I will keep
nothing back.”
The passion with which she spoke alarmed even the strong wife
of Colonel Merrivale. But she said “go on,” and listened
calmly.
Then came the story, poured out in language heated, impassioned,
and often incoherent, as remembered griefs shook the
speaker's reason; it was of a girlish heart deceived by falsest
vows, — won from the peace of a virtuous home by smooth utterances
of a lying tongue, — consumed by passion which it took for
love, — then basely cast aside, and trampled upon, and blown to
the winds of fortune, like the ashes of a cigar! An old story,
but one too common, alas! and one which will be repeated too
man, and love and trust in woman. So much Mrs. Merrivale
takes occasion to observe, as her visitor pauses in the vehemence
of her narrative to gather strength for its conclusion.
“But of one thing I am guiltless,” she resumed. “I fled from
the pit into which he would have thrust me, when he found me in
his way. I might not now be the wretchedly clad, half-starved
creature that I am, — obliged to make this journey on foot, from
poverty, — but that I proved faithful to that unfaithful man — to
my true love for him, — faithful, you may say, to my one crime
and error.”
“You are to be commended for that,” said Mrs. Merrivale,
approvingly. “I will have your case looked into,” — she is an
active member of a benevolent society, and this is her stereotyped
phrase, — “and we will see what can be done for you. But
what has all this to do with Colonel Merrivale?”
“I told you of one who loved me before my folly: his was a
sincere love, — for slighting that alone I deserve my punishment.
But after I had become what I am, another loved me — loves me
to this day — would give his life, I do believe, to save mine, with
all my unworthiness. I have tried to escape from him, but he
followed me when I came from Philadelphia,” — at that word
Mrs. Merrivale starts, — “and he has persecuted me ever since.
I will not speak his name, but it was this last who stabbed your
husband.”
Mrs. Merrivale is still mystified. Her curiosity has become
irritating, painful, and she demands an instant explanation.
“He thought to win my love by killing the man that wronged
me. In the dark he mistook Colonel Merrivale for Mr. Milburn.”
What an expression came into Mrs. Merrivale's face! She
walked swiftly to the door, then back, and finally seated herself
again opposite her visitor. But now the latter quailed before her
imperious eye. Her story told, her task accomplished, she had
no more strength to bear her up. Upon the floor, before the
mother of Louise, she fell prostrate, covering her face with her
hands.
“Forgive me! — pity me!” she sobbed. “It may be jealousy
in part that brought me here — for I know my love has been a
bad, selfish love, or it would not have left me this wreck. But I
would not injure him. I have no feling of revenge for all my
wrongs. When that other man came to me and said, `I have
killed the villain!' he almost killed me with his words. But
your daughter — I believe she is innocent and good, and — and I
think she should know what this man is. They say she will
marry him; but she cannot marry him, I am sure, when she
knows my history, — she cannot take what is as much mine, by
every law of justice and right, as if a thousand priests had pronounced
us man and wife.”
“Hush, hush! you will be overheard.”
“I may be. He is in this house, and he may hear me. I do not
care to have him; I would not choose that he should ever hear
my voice or see my face again. One night — it was the stormiest
night we had last winter — I walked through the streets of
Boston to see him — only to catch a glimpse of him, if I could,
as he came out of his hotel, — for I had just heard that he was
still alive, after I had thought him dead. I watched for him
until I had nearly perished, and when he came out, — I could n't
help speaking to him, — he had been so good to me once, — but
when he saw me, he pushed me from him, — his hand struck me,
believe he loved me! Do you think, after that, I would care to
have him hear my voice? Yet I could tell him of this to his face,
if you wish it!”
The speaker arose with a pitiful ghost of pride and resentment
in her aspect, as if she judged from the lady's mien that it would
indeed be desirable to try her truthfulness by that ordeal. But
Mrs. Merrivale said there was no occasion for the test; and, adding
a few words of encouragement, rather too formal to come from
the heart, she slipped a sum of money into her hands, and bade
her go her ways, and forget the man who had wronged her.
Ah! then the pride and resentment in Clara Grayle's aspect
appeared something more than a pitiful ghost of such! The air
with which she flung the insult from her, and put her foot upon it,
and flashed her scornful eyes upon the lady, might have become a
queen. But in a moment it was over, and her passion was followed
by a flood of tears.
“I will go! — I will not trouble you or him again,” she
sobbed in her distress, — “I can do without a bribe. Only let
me see her first — your daughter — his chosen bride. I know
that she is more beautiful than I ever was — but that will not
make me feel bad. He loves her, I suppose — but I don't care
much now. Only don't let her love him as I loved him! I
don't know why, but it will be a satisfaction for me to see her; I
would bless her, and wish her happiness, and pray God that in
all her life it may not be given her to taste one such cup of bitterness
as I drink every hour of my days! Can I see her?”
What an absurd request! It makes the lady smile. As if she
were not altogether too tender of her darling to permit an insane
creature like her to pain her only by the sight of such distress!
But when that insane creature has been sent away, the lady
will herself do what she could by no means suffer in another.
Whence this strange delight she feels in torturing the heart of
her she loves so jealously? Unhappy Louise! she knows, when
called to her mother's chamber, that the rack is prepared; and
she comes scowling, — yea, scowling is the word, radiant as that
fair face was a half-hour since, — to the dreaded inquisition.
“What is it now?” she demands, impatiently. “I see the
venom in your mouth. Don't hesitate, but spit it out.”
“What coarse language for a young lady to use!”
“Any more refined would not suit the sentiment, dear mother.
I mean venom, and I mean — spit it out.”
With a hard laugh she throws herself upon the chair poor
Clara occupied a minute since, and drums with her foot, while
Mrs. Merrivale stands looking down upon her with eyes darting
fire.
“You are very grateful to me for what I do for you always!”
said the latter. “But I am used to your temper.”
“And I am used to yours — a little too well used to it to be
a remarkably amiable child. But what wonderful work for my
good is your benevolence planning now?”
“I should like to know,” Mrs. Merrivale resumed, after a
pause, “if you have the remotest idea what sort of a man you are
going to marry?”
“There it is again! Mr. Milburn, poor fellow, has to take
it! I hope he will survive all these terrible attacks. Ever since
I began to like him a little, and concluded to have him, — it was
a match of your own contriving too, and you know it, — you have
grown so jealous and hateful towards him, that I have been afraid
you would poison his coffee.”
“A match of my contriving! I never wanted you to have
him!”
“What a woman! Why, you almost teased my life out of me,
because I did n't encourage him when he first began to come
here.”
“It is no such thing. I never wished you to encourage him.
I only desired that you should treat him civilly. When you take
a dislike you are the most uncivil creature in the world.”
“Present company excepted, dear mother! But what is it
now about Mr. Milburn?”
Mrs. Merrivale answered by repeating the story of Clara
Grayle. Louise became absorbed in it; all her generous feelings
and womanly sympathies were aroused; her indignation flamed
up; and before her mother was aware, she had conjured a spirit
too mighty for her magic, and not easy of exorcism. Louise
could not find words to express her abomination of that act of
which her betrothed was guilty; and rather than marry him, she
declared that she would destroy herself.
“There! — don't be foolish,” cried her mother, alarmed.
“Foolish? Would you have me tolerate such heartlessness?
It will be just like you to take his part, now that you have turned
me against him.”
“I would have you consider what you do.”
“And marry him!” ejaculated Louise.
“Do as you please about that. Matters have proceeded so far
that it will be impossible to break up the match without occasioning
a world of scandal. Besides, reflect that Mr. Milburn is but
a fair specimen of men in general. If you are ever to marry, I
don't know that you can do better.”
“O, what a woman you are! I do believe you are insane.
thought that, if you had any heart, you would sooner bury a
daughter than give her to such a man. Now — you disgust
me!”
And, in her passion, the fair fingers of that fair young girl
seized the lace collar that encircled her delicate white neck, and
rending it, scattered the fragments right and left upon the floor.
Then, before her mother could stop her, she had literally torn
from the room; and a minute later, she stood, flushed and trembling,
in presence of her self-possessed and smiling Theodore.
Mrs. Merrivale sent in haste for her husband. He had not
yet quite recovered from his injuries, and, on entering the chamber,
he sat down, and breathed deeply, as if exhausted by the
exertion.
“Come,” said he, wiping the sweat from his brow, “if you
have anything sweet for me, produce it; and I will go back to my
room — a great deal cooler place than this, my dear.”
He spoke with that mixture of jest and bitter earnest with which
it was his custom to address his wife, and yawned, waiting for
her answer. He had not long to wait; and he ceased yawning
when informed touching the facts that had so inflamed his daughter
against Mr. Milburn.
“The rascal!” muttered the colonel. “I was confident, at
the first, that he was at the bottom of that confounded stabbing
affair. Heaven forgive me, but I at one time more than half
believed he used the knife on me himself. So it appears these
pleasant cuts belonged by right to him! A sweet reflection! as
if I had not sins enough of my own to answer for, but I must be
sacrificed for my friends. What is to be done about it? It will
go hard with poor Louise.”
“You must talk with her, and try to bring her to her reason.”
“Do you mean — reconcile her to Theodore?”
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Merrivale.
“By heaven! but woman is a paradox!” exclaimed the colonel.
“I thought you would put daggers between them. Do you
reflect there has been a parallel case to theirs? Has your own
experience taught you no feeling of compassion for your child?
Are you determined to cut out her life after the pattern of your
own? Then I have nothing to say; I am the last person that
can throw a stone at Theodore. But as for Louise — talk to her
yourself. 'T would go against my conscience to attempt to influence
her — unless it were to warn her against taking her mother
for an example.”
By this time Clara had found her way back to the cottage
where she left her companions. How she arrived there she could
never tell. Long after, she had a dim remembrance of refusing,
a second time, Mrs. Merrivale's money; of hurrying from the
house; of meeting a man, walking leisurely up and down the
avenue, smoking; of falling down sick and dizzy at his feet, at the
recognition; of clinging to him with wild words — of being
repulsed, and cursed, and lifted up coldly by a resolute arm; of
feeling the earth swim and float beneath her as she fled: — no
more.
When the sense of life returned, she found herself lying upon a
strange bed, in a strange room, with a gentle face, seen before, or
dreamed of, bending over her, and a gentle hand bathing her lips
and temples.
“Tell him I am sorry,” she said, wanderingly. “I am much
to blame. I might have known it would displease him. But my
pride and strength forsook me. I forgot his cruelty — all his old
was such a whirl of things, and, before I knew it, I was on the
ground before him. Then I felt that if he would speak only one
kind word — But — where am I? What room is this?”
“The same room where you lay yesterday, and the day
before.”
“Yesterday? — and the day before? — Don't perplex me,”
replied Clara, closing her eyes. “I feel so weak! But” — she
looked up again wildly — “was it all a dream?”
“You have been dreaming a good deal, I think,” replied Miss
Doane, soothingly.
“About that strange journey — and poor little blind Alice and
her father — that was not a dream.”
“No. They are here. That is, Mr. Thorne is here —”
“Where is Alice?”
“O, not far off. Our good minister, Mr. Murray, came to see
you, with his daughter Margaret; and they thought she would
be better off at their house.”
“He loves her. She is very beautiful, — I am so ugly now!
I saw her on horseback,” murmured poor Clara, weeping. “For
I went up there to that fine house — I did not dream it all — it
was too terrible! That dreadful woman — Mrs. Merrivale — it
cannot be but my seeing her was real.”
“So it was, dear girl,” returned Martha Doane, with deep
compassion in her tones — “but that was two days ago.”
Clara said not a word, but, with a sigh, closed her eyes once
more, and seemed to fall asleep.
“Tell me,” she whispered, at length — Martha was at her side
in an instant — “have I been sick? Was I delirious? And —
did I talk about him?”
“My dear, dear girl!” Martha answered, embracing her tenderly,
“you have been sick — delirious; — and you have told me
enough about him to make me love you like a sister!”
“Love me? I did not tell you all, then! You would despise
me — hate me! All virtuous women join in hunting down, and
driving to desperation and distraction, each poor wretch like
me!”
“Not the virtuous — but the self-righteous do that. Virtue,
in man or woman, is ever charitable; and Charity loves the
fallen; Charity says, `Go, sister, sin no more!' God, who made
us, knows how frail we are, and loves us even while we sin, and
lets down tender cords of mercy to draw us back, when we have
gone astray; and the more one has of God within him, the more,
like God, he can forgive — the more he will love the erring. Do
not moan so, my poor girl! All will yet be well. This bruised
heart of yours will be all the cleaner and softer for its sufferings.”
“No, no! I am lost — lost — lost! There is no hope, no
love, no salvation for me. No one so fallen ever stood up again
in the pure light of heaven. Only darkness follows such, forever
and forever!”
Martha could not speak, for the fulness of her heart. She
bowed her face by Clara's, and embraced her, sobbing with bursts
of sympathy.
“Not so! not so! thank heaven!” she cried, with the enthusiasm
of an exalted faith. “I KNOW there is heavenly hope for you —
yea, a hundred times more than for those who stand erect in their
own pride of strength. Christ never enters by the brazen gate.
By the path of humility he steals in. O, I have found that in
myself! Once I was proud — once I thought myself accepted of
Heaven; but — I tell you this, my sister, to console you — I fell
and heaven! Then, when I was in the dust, the Spirit came.
Then first I knew Christ within me; then I saw that in my day
of pride the hope I had was but the ghost of hope.”
“Tell me about that!” said Clara, eagerly.
“So I will; but you are not strong enough to-day. Some
other time —”
“Now! — now! My soul is thirsty — I cannot wait. O,
God! was ever one like me restored to peace!”
“You shall hear, and then you will know,” replied Martha.
“Let me first see if I can do anything to make my father comfortable;
then I will be with you again.”
Old Mr. Doane had failed a good deal during the summer, and
Martha felt the necessity of watching over him as if he had been
a mere infant. She found him in the shed, floating a toy-boat in
a tub of water, — an occupation that seemed to afford him great
delight. On being discovered, however, he made a childish
attempt to conceal the plaything behind him; but Martha put her
arms about his neck, and kissed him so affectionately, that he
recovered his happy temper, and gleefully asked her to stop and
see his craft sail.
Tears were in her eyes when she returned to the chamber
where Clara lay, and she excused them by telling what she had
just seen. “My father — he is such a dear old man!” she went
on, wiping her eyes. “I have the strangest feelings towards him!
If you could know how changed he is from what he once was,
and what changed him, you would not wonder that I feel so.
When I remember him as he was, — a strong, calm, happy
man, with a fine intellect, and a great warm heart, — and see him
as he is now, gone back into his boyhood, living again in the
seemed somewhat to divert Clara's mind from her own woe.
“Take this medicine the doctor left for you, then I will tell you
my story.”
“Has the doctor been to see me?”
“Yes, three times. He has but just gone from here.”
“I am very sick, then! I knew it. I am not sorry. Ah!
but I am thankful I was not left to die in the desolate places of
the fields! — If she hears of it,” added Clara, wandering again,
“it will be a comfort to know that I was cared for.”
“Your mother?” suggested Martha.
“My mother! what of her? Have I told you?”
“Is she alive? Does she know anything of this?'
“Let her never know! But — she knows too much already!
When I am dead you may tell her. Perhaps she will cease to
mourn.”
“Can I know who she is?” asked Miss Doane.
No, no! that could not be! the poor girl trembled at the thought
of seeing one whom she had made to suffer through her folly stand
by her bed-side and reproach her. So Martha spoke no more of
that, but attempted to soothe her by giving some further account
of her own family.
“I had three brothers; I was the youngest child, and an only
daughter. I was my father's favorite; for my mother died when
I was a baby, and it was thought that I resembled her.
“My two oldest brothers were married, and Jared was away
at school, — he was studying a profession, — and I lived alone
with my father, when Henry first came to our house.”
“Was his name Henry? And you loved him?”
“How I loved him! O, it was a wild, wild love. It might
his own love for me was sincere, — but pride — pride! My
father was a poor music-teacher. His father was wealthy and
influential — he forbade our marriage; so at least Henry made
me believe; and he had not the courage to face his displeasure.
O, how I trusted him! But of this I do not like to speak much.
It gives me pain; and my story is like yours here.”
“Is it? — is it? Tell me true!” faltered Clara. “It may
be wicked — but it gives me joy to hear it — to know that you
have really been like me.”
“In one sense my misfortune has been heavier than yours. A
living witness appeared against me, — the dearest one, — a
babe!”
So far Martha had spoken with a calmness and cheerfulness
that surprised Clara; but now emotion choked her utterance, and
two large tears fell suddenly.
“A babe? Was it like him?”
“The picture of him, to my eyes.”
“Ah!” cried Clara, excited, “I used to wish for one! When
I feared that he would not love me always — then I thought if I
only had a child of his to love me and remind me of him!”
“It was the source of my most exquisite suffering. I had fled
to hide my shame. Henry had promised to be with me, but he
did not come. I had broken my poor father's heart — my
brothers had disowned me — the world sneered at my name —
then fell the keenest stroke of all! When I was daily, hourly
expecting Henry, the news came — he was married!”
“Married?” cried Clara, with a hysteric laugh.
“He had married a proud, rich lady, — his equal, the world
called her, in family and position. O, that stroke! I was not
been so deceived, to know that his love was less strong for me
than his ambition — that was what tore my heart. And then I
was alone, deserted, lost, when I was one day told by the woman
at whose house I was, that a gentleman had called to see me.
How my heart bounded! The news of his marriage was false,
he had kept his word, he had come —”
“Was it so?” interrupted Clara, with a darkened look.
“It was only my foolish fancy. He never came.” — Clara's
face brightened; she seemed to take a strange joy in Martha's
sufferings. — “It was my brother Jared who had sought me out.
I covered my face from his sight; I fell upon the ground; I
prayed that he would leave me to my fate. But he answered
with sweet words, lifted me up gently, and told me that henceforth
he would never leave me; he would fill the place of the world to
me, — I should be all the world to him. I was grateful as a
crushed heart could be; but I did not know my brother, even
then; and it was long before I learned what sacrifices he had
made for me. He was the accepted lover of a beautiful girl, and
they were to be married as soon as he entered upon his profession.
But when he heard of my disgrace he went to her, and said,
`She has erred, but she is our sister still. Will you own
her before the world?' It was too much to ask of her. She was
not hard-hearted; but she feared the world's censure. So she
answered, `No:' him she had chosen — him she was proud to
accept — but his fallen sister she could not take by the hand, and
walk by her side, and for her sake be scorned by the society
in which she had her being. He turned away sorrowful. O,
one cannot guess the anguish of that strong, deep nature! But
he buried his love at her feet, and left her forever. He never
speak of her; when her name was mentioned, he was silent.
This is not all. He gave up his profession — abandoned his
cherished studies — put his hands to hard labor — that I might
not want. My other brothers blamed him, and refused to countenance
what they termed his folly, by any charity. And my
father, — broken-hearted man, — they had taken him to their
homes, and influenced him, too, against us.”
“But your babe — what became of it?”
“This painful story — I tell it as calmly as I can,” said
Martha, weeping; “but the old agony has still its sharp roots in
my heart. Bear with me a little — then I will go on. When
my babe was three months old, Jared came to me one day, and
said, `Martha, this hiding from the world is base and infidel. Let
us rely on God, and, walking humbly before the eyes of men, submit
to be stoned even, rather than sin against our own souls by
this concealment.' I asked him, in alarm, what he would do.
`Go back to our native village,' he replied, — O, he was sublime
when he said that! — `and meet this dishonor there. To attempt
to fly from it is a fool's thought. It is like the infection of a
corpse unburied. We must go and bury it where it lies.' `O,
Jared, what do you mean?' I cried. `You cannot really think of
taking me back there, where the harvest of my shame was sown!'
`It is there,' he answered, `where the ground must be ploughed
afresh, and harrowed, and prepared for a different crop, whose
golden waving in the sun of truth will cause the other to be forgotten.
There is no other way.' Kind and loving as he was,
Jared was firm as adamant, when his feet were planted in the
right. When he said, `There is no other way,' I knew there
was no other. You know, Clara, O, you know what it was for
curious and scornful eyes would whisper my name with laughter!
“Mr. Murray, the minister here, — for it were here, in this village,
that the poison-flower of my life had blossomed, — approved
of Jared's determination, and used his influence to secure for us
this little farm on advantageous terms. But it was still several
months before the premises were ready for us. During the delay
there came to me — a summons. It fell like a whirlwind!”
“Your babe!” murmured Clara.
“God called on me to part with it — to let that idol go — to
shut the only gate of consolation left to me — to seal the sweet
fountain that watered the parched desert of my life. That
child — it was as a summer-cloud: it had brought spring gladness
— tears and song — to my wintry heart. When the tree was
broken and blasted by the lightning, there had put forth a tender
green shoot from the scarred trunk — now to be cut away! That
sorrow, Clara, — you know nothing of it, — not even you!”
Martha paused to weep. Clara, impatient, besought her to
conclude her story.
“The most painful part — that which relates to my child — I
must leave till another time, when both of us are stronger. O,
the grief — the desolation! Jared was most merciful and
brotherly to me then. But he was still firm in the resolution
he had taken; and one evening you might have seen him get out
of a wagon here before the house, and walk up the door-yard
path, supporting on his arm the most wretched and utterly hopeless
sister in the world. Into this room I tottered that night.
Upon this floor I threw myself in my despair. I dreaded the
morning; I wished it might be always night without a star. For
the dawn would show to my sick eyes old familiar places, once
walk with Henry, and every tree would remind me — every leaf
would whisper the story — the brook would babble of the past
so mockingly! But, worst of all, I dreaded the sight of any face
that I had ever known. I had enjoyed the admiration and love
of some dear companions; but the thought of them now burned
me, like live cinders of humiliation heaped upon my head. None
of those troubled me much, however,” said Martha, with a sad
smile. “O, they kept away from me faithfully! I was more
alone here in my old home than I had been among strangers. My
leprosy was shunned as religiously as if its touch had been fatal
to the soul itself.
“It was what I expected; I was thankful for it. Even the
face of our good minister I dreaded to see. But Mr. Murray
has a heart full of charity. Like our Saviour, he makes himself
the brother of the outcast and the poor. He came and held to my
fevered lips the sweet cup of Christian consolation. He assured
me, with a smile of love and trust, that the day would come
when I would bless God for all my sufferings. He spoke like a
prophet, and the time he prophesied of was not slow in coming.
Cut off from the shallow streams of the world's love, I turned
within myself, and found there a fountain of the infinite love of
God. Then truly all things were added unto me. Not only the
joy of spirit was mine, but, sitting under the trees of heaven,
everything I needed appeared to fall into my lap like ripe fruit.
Friends — the very friends my soul required — came to me
unsought. The earth seemed to flower with sweets for me, as for
the bees. O, do not think I have had no inward struggles all
this time! I have had to climb rugged steeps, over sharp rocks
me for every hardship.
“And now I know, dear sister, that the only wise course for
me was to come back here, and live down my bad name. I think
I have lived it down. After the act of confession, in coming
back, I felt my conscience relieved. My sin was between me and
my God. Deceiving no one with respect to my past, I endeavored
so to live that the dews of heaven's forgiveness, falling on a
contrite spirit, might in time wash out its stain. And, O, I have
been wonderfully blessed! My poor father was the first to return
to me — then others came and took me by the hand — it was
like a dream! I, so lost, so crushed, so shunned — was it possible
that I was thus restored? I remember when I used to steal into
the church, on Sunday, with my head bowed low down, to hear
Mr. Murray preach, and sit without looking up till the services
were over — the very church where I used to step so proudly,
and sing, with unblushing face, in the conspicuous choir. Only
Jared walked by my side then; only the benevolent minister took
me by the hand there, at first; but soon — I don't know how it
was — pew-doors were opened for me, and the proudest were not
ashamed to seat me by their side. Now I sing again in the
choir, and do not hide my face.”
“Let me die! — let me die!” moaned Clara. “I could not
endure what you have endured. I will tell you why. One night
last winter, I was hurrying through the streets, wild from a blow
he had struck me, when I came upon a poor man with his blind
girl perishing in the storm. It was like a fatality. The man
and child — they were the same I met upon my journey and led
to your door. Then I led them to another door — to the door of
my own parents, who had moved to a strange house since I
been. I ran in — I showed my face before I was aware —
eyes stared upon me that have stared in my soul ever since! I
see them in my dreams; they burn before me in broad day, more
fiery than the sun. Those eyes — those eyes! how could I endure
to have them look upon me morning, noon and evening?”
“What if they looked lovingly?” said Martha.
“Lovingly! They can have nothing but glances of hatred and
reproach for me! But yet — I think my poor mother — my good
father — my kind uncle — the dear children — they must remember
me, sometimes, with charity.”
And Clara, recalling the images of those who were once dear
to her, turned her face upon her pillow, and wept until she fell
asleep.
| XXVII.
CLARA AND MARTHA. Martin Merrivale | |