Helen and Arthur Part 23

"When the morning came, he was pale and sad, and the young girl was pale and sad from sympathy. Then the Prince knelt down at her feet, and told her the history of his father's dream and his own, and of his exceeding great and bitter sorrow. He wept, but the maiden smiled, and she looked like an angel with that sweet smile on her face.

"'My heart is yours,' she said, 'I give it willingly and cheerfully.

Drain from it every drop of blood, if you will--I care not, so it save _you_ from perishing.'

"Then the eyes of the young Prince shone out like the sun after a storm, and drawing his dagger from his bosom, he--"

"Stop, Miss Thusa--don't go on," interrupted Helen, pale with emotion.

"I cannot bear to hear it. It is too awful. I asked you for something beautiful, and you have chosen the most terrible theme. Don't finish it."

"Is there not something beautiful," said the young doctor, bending down, and addressing her in a low voice--"is there not something beautiful in such pure and self-sacrificing love? Is there no chord in your heart that thrills responsive as you listen? Oh, Helen--I am sure _you_ could devote yourself for one you loved."

"Oh, yes!" she answered, forgetting, in her excitement, all her natural timidity. "I could do it joyfully, glorying in the sacrifice. But he, so selfish, so cruel, so sanguinary--it is from him I shrink. His heart is already marble--it cannot change."

"Wait, child--wait till you hear the end," cried Miss Thusa, inspired by the effect of her words. "He drew a dagger from his bosom, and was about to plunge it in his _own_ heart, and die at her feet, when the old man of his dream entered and caught hold of his arm."

"''Tis enough,' he cried. 'The trial is over. She has given you her heart, her warm, living heart--take it and cherish it. Without love, man turns to stone--and thus becomes a marble statue. You have proved your own love and hers, since you are willing to die for each other. Put up your dagger, and if you ever wound that heart of hers, the vengeance of Heaven rest upon you.'

"Thus saying, he departed, but strange to tell, as he was speaking, his face was all the time growing younger and fairer, his white beard gradually disappeared, and as he went through the door, a pair of white wings, tipped with gold, began to flutter on his shoulders. Then they knew it was an angel that had been with them, and they bowed themselves down to the floor and trembled. Is there any need of my telling you, that the Prince married the young maiden, and carried her to his kingdom, and set her on his throne? Is there any need of my saying how beautiful she looked, with a golden crown on her head, and a golden chain on her neck, and how meek and good she was all the time, in spite of her finery? No, I am sure there isn't. Now, I must go to spinning."

"That _is_ beautiful!" cried Helen, the color coming back to her cheeks, "but the white dove, Miss Thusa, that was to fold its wings on his bosom. You have forgotten that."

"Have I? Yes--yes. Sure enough, I am getting old and forgetful. The white dove that was to come from the east! I remember it all now:--After he had reigned awhile he dreamed again that he was commanded to go in quest of the dove, and take his young Queen with him. They were to go on foot as pilgrims, and leave all their pomp and state behind them, with their faces towards the east, and their eyes lifted to Heaven. While they were journeying on, the young Queen began to languish, and grow pale and wan. At last she sunk down at his feet, and told him that she was going to die, and leave him alone in his pilgrimage. The young King smote his breast, and throwing himself down by her side, prayed to G.o.d that he might die too. Then she comforted him, and told him to live for his people, and bow to the will of the Most High.

"'You were willing to die for me,' she cried, 'show greater love by being willing to live when I am gone--love to G.o.d and me.'

"'The will of G.o.d be done,' he exclaimed, prostrating himself before the Lord. Then a soft flutter was heard above his head, and a beautiful white dove flew into his bosom. At the same time an angel appeared, whom he knew was the old man of his dream, all glorified as it were, and the moment he breathed on her, the dying Queen revived and smiled on her husband, just as she did in her mother's cabin.

"'You were willing to give your own life for hers,' said the angel to the young King, 'and that was love. You were willing to give her up to G.o.d, and that was greater love to a greater being. Thou hast been weighed in the balance and not found wanting. Return and carry in thy bosom the milk-white dove, and never let it flee from thy dwelling.'

"The angel went up into Heaven--the young King and Queen returned to their palace, where they had a long, happy, and G.o.dly reign."

The logs in the chimney had burned down to a bed of mingled scarlet and jet, that threw out a still more intense heat, and the sun had rolled down the west, leaving a bed of scarlet behind it, while Miss Thusa related the history of the young Prince of the East.

Helen, in the intensity of her interest, had forgotten the gliding hours, and wondered where the day had flown.

"I think if you related me such stories, Miss Thusa, every day," said the young doctor, "I should be a wiser and better man. I shall not forget this soon."

"I do not believe I shall tell another story as long as I live," replied she, shaking her head oracularly. "I had to exert myself powerfully to remember and put that together as I wanted to. Well, well--all the gifts of G.o.d are only loans after all, and He has a right to take them away whenever He chooses. We mustn't murmur and complain about it."

"Dear Miss Thusa, this is the best story you ever told," cried Helen, while she m.u.f.fled herself for her cold, evening walk. "There is something so touching in its close--and the moral sinks deep in the heart. No, no; I hope to hear a hundred more at least, like this. I am glad you have given up ghosts for angels."

The wind blew in strong, wintry gusts, as they pa.s.sed through the leafless woods. Helen shivered with cold, in spite of the warm garments that sheltered her. The scarlet of the horizon had faded into a chill, darkening gray, and as they moved through the shadows, they were scarcely distinguishable themselves from the trees whose dry branches creaked above their heads. Arthur folded his cloak around Helen to protect her from the inclemency of the air, and the warmth of summer stole into her heart. They talked of Miss Thusa, of the story she had told, of its interest and its moral, and Arthur said he would be willing to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, over burning coals, for such a heart as the maiden offered to the young Prince. That very heart was throbbing close, very close to his, but its deep emotions found no utterance through the lips. Helen remarked that she would willingly travel with bleeding feet from end to end of the universe, for the beautiful white dove, which was the emblem of G.o.d's holy spirit.

"Helen, that dove is nestling in your bosom already," cried Arthur Hazleton; "but the heart I sigh for, will it indeed ever be mine?"

Helen could not answer, for she dared not interpret the words which, though addressed to herself, might have reference to another. With the humility and self-depreciation usually the accompaniment of deep reverence and devotion, she could not believe it possible that one so exalted in intellect, so n.o.ble in character, so beloved and honored by all who knew him, so much older than herself; one, too, who knew all her weaknesses and faults, could ever look upon her otherwise than with brotherly kindness and regard. Then she contrasted his manner with that of Clinton, for his were the only love-words that ever were breathed into her ear, and she was sure that if Clinton's was the language of love, Arthur's was that of friendship only. Perhaps her silence chilled, it certainly hushed the expression of his thoughts, for he spoke not till they reached the threshold of her home. The bright light gleaming through the blinds, showed them how dark it had grown abroad since they left Miss Thusa's cottage. Helen was conscious then how very slowly they must have walked.

"Thank you," said she, releasing herself from the sheltering folds that had enveloped her. "Hark!" she suddenly exclaimed, "whose voice is that I hear within? It is--it must be Louis. Dear, dear Louis!--so long absent!--so anxiously looked for!"

Even in that moment of joy, while bounding over the threshold with the fleetness of a fawn, the dreaded form of Clinton rose before the eye of her imagination, and arrested for a moment her flying steps. Again she heard the voice of Louis, and Clinton was forgotten.

CHAPTER XI.

"Go, sin no more! Thy penance o'er, A new and better life begin!

G.o.d maketh thee forever free From the dominion of thy sin!

Go, sin no more! He will restore The peace that filled thy heart before, And pardon thine iniquity."--_Longfellow._

"I am glad you came _alone_, brother," cried Helen, when, after the supper was over, they all drew around the blazing hearth. Louis turned abruptly towards her, and as the strong firelight fell full upon his face, she was shocked even more than at first, with his altered appearance. The bloom, the brightness, the joyousness of youth were gone, leaving in their stead, paleness, and dimness, and gloom. He looked several years older than when he left home, but his was not the maturity of the flower, but its premature wilting. There was a worm in the calyx, preying on the vitality of the blossom, and withering up its beauty.

Yes! Louis had been feeding on the husks of dissipation, though in his father's house there was food enough and to spare. He had been selling his immortal birth-right for that which man has in common with the brutes that perish, and the reptiles that crawl in the dust. Slowly, reluctantly at first, had he stepped into the downward path, looking back with agonies of remorse to the smooth, green, flowery plains he had left behind, striving to return, but driven forward by the gravitating power of sin. The pa.s.sionate resolutions he formed from day to day of amendment, were broken, like the light twigs that grow by the mountain wayside.

He had looked upon the wine when it was red, and found in its dregs the sting of the adder. He had partic.i.p.ated in the maddening excitement of the gaming-table, from which remorse and horror pursued him with scorpion lash. He had entered the "chambers of death"--though avenging demons guarded its threshold. Poor, tempted Louis! poor, fallen Louis!

In how short a s.p.a.ce has the whiteness of thy innocence been sullied, the glory of thy promise been obscured! But the flame fed by oxygen soon wastes away by its own intensity, and ardent pa.s.sions once kindled, burn with self-consuming rapidity.

We have not followed Louis in his wild and reckless course since he left his father's mansion. It was too painful to witness the degeneracy of our early favorite. But the whole history of the past was written on his haggard brow and pallid cheek. It need not be recorded here. He had thought himself a life-long alien from the home he had disgraced, for never could he encounter his father's indignant frown, or call up the blush of shame on Helen's spotless cheek.

But one of those mighty drawings of the spirit--stronger than chains of triple steel--that thirst of the heart for pure domestic joy, which the foaming goblet can never quench--that immortal longing which rises up from the lowest abysses of sin, that yearning for pardon which stirred the bosom of the Hebrew prodigal, constrained the transgressing Louis to burst asunder the bonds of iniquity, and return to his father's house.

"I am glad you have come alone, brother," repeated Helen, repressing the sigh that quivered on her lips.

"Who did you expect would be my companion?" asked Louis, putting back the long, neglected locks, that fell darkly over his temples.

"I feared Bryant Clinton would return with you," replied Helen, regretting the next moment that she had uttered a name which seemed to have the effect of galvanism on Mittie--who started spasmodically, and lifted the screen before her face. No one had asked for Clinton, yet all had been thinking of him more or less.

"I have not seen him for several weeks," he replied, "he had business that called him in another direction, but he will probably be here soon."

Again Mittie gave a spasmodic start, and held the screen closer to her face. Helen sighed, and looked anxiously towards her mother. The announcement excited very contradictory emotions.

"Do you mean to imply that he is coming again as the guest of your parents, as the inmate of this home?" asked Mr. Gleason, sternly.

"Yes, sir," replied Louis, a red streak flashing across his face. "How could it be otherwise?"

"But it _shall_ be otherwise," exclaimed Mr. Gleason, rising abruptly from his chair, and speaking with a vehemence so unwonted that it inspired awe. "That young man shall never again, with my consent, sit down at my board, or sleep under my roof. I believe him a false, unprincipled, dangerous companion--whom my doors shall never more be opened to receive. Had it not been for him, that pale, stone-like, petrified girl, might have been brilliant and blooming, yet. Had it not been for him, I should not have the anguish, the humiliation, the shame of seeing my son, my only son, the darling of his dead mother's heart, the pride and hope of mine, a blighted being, shorn of the brightness of youth, and the glory of advancing manhood. Talk not to me of bringing the destroyer here. This fireside shall never more be darkened by his presence."

Mr. Gleason paused, but from his eye, fixed steadfastly on Louis, the long sleeping lightning darted. Mittie, who had sprung from her chair while her father was speaking, stood with white cheeks and parted lips, and eyes from which fire seemed to coruscate, gazing first at him, and then at her brother.

"Father," cried Louis, "you wrong him. My sins and transgressions are my own. Mountain high as they are, they shall not crush another. Mine is the sorrow and guilt, and mine be the penalty. I do not extenuate my own offences, but I will not criminate others. I beseech you, sir, to recall what you have just uttered, for how can I close those doors upon a friend, which have so lately been opened for him with ungrudging hospitality?"

Mittie's countenance lighted up with an indescribable expression. She caught her brother's hand, and pressing it in both hers, exclaimed--

"n.o.bly said, Louis. He who can hear an absent friend defamed, without defending him, is worthy of everlasting scorn."

But Helen, terrified at the outburst of her father's anger, and overwhelmed with grief for her brother's humiliation, bowed her head and wept in silence.

Mr. Gleason turned his eyes, where the lightning still gleamed, from Louis to Mittie, as if trying to read her inscrutable countenance.