13. CHAPTER XIII.
The crisis soon came, and Mrs. Howell
passed quietly away, not, however, until after
the arrival of relatives from Charleston and New York. Complying
with her own request, as well as with the wishes of the family at
large, her form was carried to Charleston and laid to rest by the
side of the remains of her departed mother in the old cemetery.
Peacefully she sleeps there now, and the secret of her life's
sorrow sleeps with her. No member of the family, much
less any one outside, had been permitted to share her
confidence. By no word of hers had the good name of Leonard
C. Howell received the slightest tarnish. With all his
sinning he
was still her husband in the eyes of the world, and was the father
of her children ; and with a loyalty that ended only in death she had
guarded her family's honor even against her own relatives.
Gossipping neighbors had had their say ; but fortunately their talk
had not spread beyond their own locality ; and the relatives of
Hortense, as they assembled around her open grave to witness the
last sad rites, had nothing in their hearts to the prejudice of
Mr. Howell.
After the funeral, Mr. Howell returned to
Macon and as soon as possible put his business in such position that he
could safely leave it, and then prepared to give his home up in the
South. The beautiful house in which he had lived with his
family, and all its surroundings were as so many faithful witnesses
against him, and he could no longer bear to be
near them. Acting on the suggestion of his
brother-in-law, he decided to remove to
Brooklyn, because of the superior educational advantages to be
found in that city. The duty of caring for his children appeared to
him now as it had never before ; and when Mr. Gordon
offered to take them into his home as a part of his own family,
Mr. Howell's feelings were so intense that he felt compelled
to decline the brotherly offer. He shrank from the thought of
turning over the care of these more than half-to any one,
or of even dividing it with others. He feared to place so near
himself a temptation which might cause him to turn aside from the duty he
had imposed upon himself by the most solemn sacrament.
Under this impulse he established himself a quiet home in the
outskirts of the city, furnishing it just as he thought
the taste of his wife would have dictated had she been alive ; and into
it with his two children he entered with the resolution to lead a life that
should be the just sequel of the life of his departed companion.
How weak, how awkward, how unworthy
he felt, as he he now practically contemplated his work ; a
feeling of inability, of shame and of reluctance crept over
him. It was evening, in full view over the mantle hung the
portrait of Hortense. Leonard was seated by the table
musing, Willie and Mary had said their evening prayers
and, with the hush of sadness that had not left their souls since
"Mamma went away," as they always expressed
it, had gone to their beds. The gas was burning brightly
and Leonard was wrapped in thought. The whole past came up
before him, from the days of his childhood on his
grandfather's farm, to the stirring scenes and the dangers of
war — his meeting with Hortense, his
marriage, His life, her suffering, her
death, and again his obligation. Raising his eyes he gazed
upon her picture as it looked down upon him. Her looks seemed to
purify and strengthen him : in that life, in that
form, Leonard sees again that power, before which his
reason and his heart had bowed down in reverence. Like Jacob of
old awaking from his vision he could say, "Surely God has
been in my dwelling all these days and I, poor blind foolish
man, knew it not !" Again he solemnly repeated his
vow ; again he declared with great, internal
emphasis, he tones half-aloud :
"Hortense, you shall live ! I will accept your
work, I will carry out your purpose, oh, that I
might receive your spirit."
Leonard had began life anew, and sweet
and pleasant were the exchanges of thought and feeling between father and
children. Their abode became more and more like an ideal
home, despite the absence of the mother. Leonard's
heart was now indeed opening and was giving out real love, and
receiving love in return. His love was now taking its place in
obedience to reason and conscience, and was enjoying its freedom
under law. He untied with his
brother-in-law's church, and was daily
becoming more active in good works ; but his life was not yet free
from sad regrets.
. . .
. . . .
Years have passed by, and William and Mary are
grown. Young people they are, of refined and pleasant
manners, of pure and lofty character, of gentle and pious
spirit ; both active members of their uncle's church,
both active supporters of the pastor's wife, their
tender-hearted aunt
Lavinia, in her many enterprises for goos. Early every
spring Leonard goes to Charleston, and spends day after day on
the cemetery, looking after the grave of his wife ; and from
this mecca he derives renewed inspiration. Already his
heart, his love, and his work have widened.
Active in Sunday school, his attention has been drawn to the
fatherless and motherless little ones in the city, Rapidly he is
becoming on heart the father of the orphan ; and there is beginning
to form in his mind the picture and the purpose of an asylum for those
unfortunate ones. Leonard's life is one of work, and
it has now entered that domain where "Love in the mainspring of
duty., He found his ideal of love, not in the
fleshy, sensual world, which entrapped his feet through
a pernicious philosophy, but in that quiet life, which was
with Christ in God, having been led there
at great cost and within whose sacred precincts he had been trying for years
to dwell. As yet he daw it and felt its power, but had not
tasted its thoroughly satisfying joys.
It was Easter. Mr. Howell was seated in his
brother-in-law' church, His
daughter, whose voice had received most careful training,
was in the choir, which occupied a small gallery in the rear of the
pulpit and in full view of the whole congregation, This morning
she was to sing her first solo in church. The church was
handsomely decorated with flowers, and entirely filled with
worshippers. Mr. Gordon was all aglow with his theme and
the occasion. Mr. Howell occupied a seat in the
pastor's pew by the side of Mrs. Gordon. The years
that had passed had left their marks on all these faces. Mrs.
Gordon was still beautiful, but she had long ceased to be the
Lavinia that bewildered Leonard Howell by her sprightly loveliness in the
long ago. She was now the soft and gentle wife and mother ;
the kind and tender helpmeet of a broad and energetic pastor.
Leonard had become a practical philanthropist and Christian. His
face showed benevolence and earnestness ; but it bore upon
it, also, the unmistakable signs of sadness and
regret. The service began, and every step of its progress
was marked with fitness and reality. It was no mere
performance. The sermon was full of thought and feeling,
and was received by sympathetic hearers. At its conclusion there
was a slight rustle and then the organ gave forth a few preliminary
notes, and Mary Howell arose to sing.
Soon her rich, clear voice, came
out, rather softly, in the opening phrases of a song of
Christian triumph.
"Who are these in bright array?" She sang
with a sweetness that riveted the attention of every one in the house;
and when after a brief interlude she poured forth her voice the fullness of
its strength to render the rapturous answer : "These are they
which came out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made
them white in the blood of the Lamb," all were moved by
the sweet tones and by the correct interpretation of the opening scenes in
the transforming drama which was, by her matchless power of
song, enacting itself in full view. Then dropping into the
purest recitative, she went on :
"Therefore are they before the throne of God and serve
Him day and night in his temple. They shall hunger no
more, neither thirst no more. For the Lamb which is in the
midst of the throne shall feed
them, and shall lead them into living fountains of waters and God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes," as she sang this
her eyes wandered away from the people in front and in the
galleries, and her gaze seemed to seek a resting place near the
ceiling. Her eyes were glistening; her voice was superlatively
rich, but it did not tremble ; and she appeared like one
completely absorbed. She was but a medium through whom the
glories of Heaven were being revealed to an almost startled
audience. As she ceased to sing she sank back in her chair,
and covering her face with her hankerchief softly murmured,
"Mamma —
through
tribulations deep! God shall wipe away all tears!"
Leonard C. Howell had heard the song and had seen
the vision. He saw the throng in white robes and golden crowns
before the throne of God ; he read their
history : "
Through tribulations deep;" he recognized among them the wife whose name
he honored. The sorrow and sadness were lifted from his
soul, for a moment as he saw "God himself wiping the tears
from her eyes," and felt that her work was still going
on.
THE END.
