University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
ELLA.

Very pleasantly to Dora did the remainder of the winter
pass away. She was appreciated at last, and nothing could
exceed the kindness of both Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, the latter
of whom treated her more like a sister than a servant,
while even Eugenia, who came often to Rose Hill, and
whose fawning manner had partially restored her to the
good opinion of the fickle Ella, tried to treat her with a
show of affection, when she saw how much she was respected.
Regularly each day Dora went to the handsome library,
where she recited her lessons to Mr. Hastings, who became
deeply interested in watching the development of her fine,
intellectual mind.

One thing, however, troubled her. Ella did not improve,
and never since Dora came to Rose Hill had she sat up
more than an hour, but lay all day on her bed, while her
face grew white almost as the wintry snow, save when a
bright red spot burned upon her cheeks, making her, as
Dora thought, even more beautiful than she had been in
health. Once in the gathering twilight, when they sat
together alone, she startled Dora with the question, “Is
everybody afraid to die?”

“Mother was not,” answered Dora, and Ella continued,
“But she was good, and I am not. I have never done

a worthy act in all my life. Never thought of death, or
even looked upon it, for mother told us there was no need
of harrowing up our feelings—it would come soon enough,
she said; and to me, who hoped to live so long, it has come
too soon—all too soon;” and the hot tears rained through
the transparent fingers, clasped so convulsively over her
face.

For many weeks Dora had felt an undefined presentiment
of coming evil—had seen it in Ella's failing health—in the
increased tenderness of Mr. Hastings's manner, whenever he
bent over the pillow of his young wife, or bore her in his
arms, as he sometimes did, to the window, that she might
look out upon the garden, and the winding walks which she
would never tread again. And now Ella herself had confirmed
it—had spoken of death as something very near.

“Oh, she must not die!” was Dora's mental cry of
anguish, as moving nearer to the bedside she grasped the
little wasted hand which lay outside the counterpane, and
this was her only answer, for she could not speak. There
was a numbness at her heart, a choking sensation in her
throat, which prevented her utterance. But Ella understood
her, and returning the warm pressure, she continued, “You,
too, have seen it then, and know that I must die; but oh!
you do not know how I dread the lonesome darkness of the
grave, or the world which lies beyond. If somebody would
go with me, or teach me the way, it wouldn't be so
hard.”

Poor Ella! Her life had been one round of fashionable
folly, and now that the world was fading from her view, her
fainting soul cried out for light to guide her through the
shadowy valley her feet were soon to tread. And light
came at last, through the word of God and the teachings
of the faithful clergyman, who was sent for at her request,

and who came daily up to see her. There was no more fear
now—no more terror of the narrow tomb, for there was One
to go with her—one whose arm was powerful to save; and
on him Ella learned to lean, clinging still with an undying
love to her husband, with whom she often talked of the time
when he would be alone and she be far away.

“It is so hard to give you up,” she said one day, when as
usual he was sitting by her side; “so hard to say good bye
forever, and know that though you will miss me at first, and
mourn for me too, there will come a time when another will
take my place—another than Ella can call you hers; but I
am willing,” she continued, as she saw him about to speak,
“willing that it should be so. I have loved you, Howard,
more than you can know, or I can ever tell; but I am not
worthy of you. I do not satisfy the higher feelings of your
heart; I am not what your wife should be, and for this
I must die. Many a night, when you were sleeping at my
side, have I lain awake, asking myself why I, to whom the
world was so beautiful and bright, must leave it so soon;
and as I thought over the events of our short married life,
the answer came to me, `I cannot make you happy as you
ought to be, and for your sake I am taken away.”'

“Oh, Ella, Ella!” groaned Mr. Hastings, laying his head
beside hers, upon the pillow.

From his inmost soul he knew that what she said was
true; but for this he would not that she should die. She
had been to him a gentle, loving wife, the one he had chosen
from all others to share his home; and though he had failed
to find in her the companion he had sought, she was very
dear to him—was the mother of his child; and the strong
man's heart was full of anguish as he thought of giving her
up so soon. Who would comfort him when she was gone,
or speak to him words of love?

Softly the chamber door unclosed, and Dora Deane looked
in; but seeing them thus together, she stole away into the
garden, where the early spring grass was just starting into
life, and there, weeping bitterly, she too prayed that Ella
might not die. But neither tears nor prayers were of avail
to save her. Still, for weeks she lingered, and the soft June
air, stealing in through the open window, had more than
once lifted the golden curls from off her fading brow, and
more than one bouquet of sweet wild blossoms had been
laid upon her pillow, ere the midnight hour, when, with anguish
at their hearts, Howard Hastings and Dora Deane
watched together by her side, and knew that she was dying.
There had been long, dreary nights of wakefulness, and the
worn-out sufferer had asked at last that she might die—
might sleep the dreamless sleep from which she would never
waken. And Howard Hastings, as night after night went
by, and the laughing blue eyes which had won his early love
grew dim with constant waking, had felt that it would be
better when his loved one was at rest. But death, however
long expected, is sudden at the last, and so it was to him,
when he saw the shadow creeping over her face, which
cometh once to all. She would not suffer them to rouse the
household, she would rather die with them alone, she said,
with Dora standing near, and her husband's arms about her,
so that the tones of his voice should be the last sound which
would fall upon her ear, and Dora's hand the last to minister
to her wants.

“I have loved you so much, Howard, oh, so much!” and
the white clammy fingers, so soon to be laid away beneath
the summer flowers, strayed lovingly through the raven
locks of her husband, who could answer only with his tears,
which fell fast upon her face. “And you too, Dora,” she
continued, motioning the weeping girl to advance, “I have

loved you too, for you have been kind to me, and when I
am gone, you will live here still and care for my child,
whom we have called Fannie. It is a beautiful name, Dora
—your mother's name, and for your sake, I would fain let
her keep it—but,” turning to Mr. Hastings, and laying her
hand caressingly upon his head, “when I no longer live, I
would rather you should call my baby Ella Grey; and if,
my husband”—here she paused to gather strength for what
she was about to say, and after a moment continued, “if in
coming years, another sits beside you in my chair, and the
voices of other children shall call you father, you will not
forget your first-born, I know, but will love her better, and
think, perchance, the oftener of me, if she bears my name;
for however truly you may hereafter love, it was Ella Grey
that won your first affection.

Again she paused, and there was no sound heard in the
chamber of death, save the sobs of those about to be bereaved,
and the faint rustling of the leaves without, which
were gently moved by the night wind.

“Bring me my baby,” she said at last; and Dora laid the
sleeping child in the arms of the young mother, who, clasping
it fondly to her bosom, breathed over it a dying mother's
blessing, and with a dying mother's tears baptized it Ella
Grey.

There was a long, deep silence then, and when at last
Howard Hastings lifted up his head from the pillow where
it had been resting, and Dora Deane came timidly to his
side, they gazed together on the face of the sweetly sleeping
dead.