Helen and Arthur Part 28

Arthur's sternly upbraiding eye softened into an expression of the deepest sorrow, not unmingled with contempt, on beholding the degradation of this splendidly endowed young man. He reminded him of a fallen angel, with his glorious plumage all soiled and polluted with the mire and corruption of earth. He never had had faith in his integrity; be believed him to be the tempter of Louis, the deceiver of Mittie, reckless and unprincipled where pleasure was concerned, but he did not believe him capable of such a daring transgression. Had he been alone, he would have released him, for his magnanimity and generosity would have triumphed over his sense of justice, but legal authority was present, and to that he was forced to submit.

"_I_ arrest you, sir, in virtue of my authority as sheriff of the county," exclaimed Mr. Mason; "empty your pockets of the gold you have purloined from this woman, and then follow me. Quick, or I'll give you rough aid."

The pomp and aristocracy of Clinton's appearance and manners had made him unpopular in the neighborhood, and it is not strange that a man whom he had never condescended to notice should triumph in his disgrace. He looked on with vindictive pleasure while Clinton, after a useless resistance, produced the gold he had secreted, but Arthur turned away his head in shame. He could not bear to witness the depth of his degradation. His cheek burned with painful blushes, as the gold clinked on the table, ringing forth the tale of Clinton's guilt.

"Now, sir, come along," cried the stern voice of the sheriff. "Doctor, I leave the care of this to you."

While he was speaking, he drew a pair of hand-cuffs from his pocket, which he had slipped in before leaving home, thinking they might come in use.

"You shall not degrade me thus!" exclaimed Clinton, haughtily, writhing in his grasp; "you shall never put those vile things on me!"

"Softly, softly, young gentleman," cried the sheriff, "I shall hurt your fair wrists if you don't stand still. There, that will do. Come along.

No halting."

Arthur gave one glance towards the retreating form of Clinton, as he pa.s.sed through the door, with his haughty head now drooping on his breast, wearing the iron badge of crime, and groaned in spirit, that so fair a temple should not be occupied by a n.o.bler indwelling guest. So rapidly had the scene pa.s.sed, so still and lone seemed the apartment, for Miss Thusa had sunk back on her pillow mute and exhausted, that he was tempted to believe that it was nothing but a dream. But the wheel lay in fragments at his feet, the gold lay in shining heaps upon the table, and a dark mask grinned from the floor. That gold, too!--how dream-like its existence! Was Miss Thusa a female Midas or Aladdin? Was the dull bra.s.s lamp burning on the table, the gift of the genii? Was the old gray cabin a witch's magic home?

Rousing himself with a strong effort, he examined the condition of his patient, and was grieved to find how greatly this shock had accelerated the work of disease. Her pulse was faint and flickering, her skin cold and clammy, but after swallowing a cordial, and inhaling the strong odor of hartshorn, a reaction took place, and she revived astonishingly; but when she spoke, her mind evidently wandered, sometimes into the shadows of the past, sometimes into the light of the future.

"What shall I do with this?" asked Arthur, pointing to the gold, anxious to bring her thoughts to some central point; "and these, too?" stooping down and picking up a fragment of the wheel.

"Screw it up again--screw it up," she replied, quickly, "and put the gold back in it. 'Tis Helen's--all little Helen's. Don't let them rob her after I'm dead."

Rejoicing to hear her speak so rationally, though wondering if what she said of Helen was not the imagining of a disordered brain, he began to examine the pieces of the wheel, and found that with the exertion of a little skill he could put them together again, and that it was only some slender parts of the machine which were broken. He placed the money in its hollow receptacles, united the brazen rings, and smoothed the tangled flax that twined the distaff. Ever and anon Miss Thusa turned her fading glance towards him, and murmured,

"It is good. It is good!"

For more than an hour she lay perfectly still, when suddenly moving, she exclaimed,

"Put away the curtain--it's too dark."

Arthur drew aside the curtain from the window nearest the bed, and the pale, cold moonlight came in, in white, shining bars, and striped the dark counterpane. One fell across Miss Thusa's face, and illuminated it with a strange and ghastly l.u.s.tre.

"Has the moon gone down?" she asked. "I thought it stayed till morning in the sky. But my gla.s.ses are getting wondrous dim. I must have a new pair, doctor. How slow the wheel turns round; the band keeps slipping off, and the crank goes creaking, creaking, for want of oil. Little Helen, take your feet off the treadle, and don't sit so close, darling.

I can't breathe."

She panted a few moments, catching her breath with difficulty, then tossing her arms above the bed-cover, said, in a fainter voice,

"The great wheel of eternity keeps rolling on, and we are all bound upon it. How grandly it moves, and all the time the flax on the distaff is smoking. G.o.d says in the Bible He will not quench it, but blow it to a flame. You've read the Bible, havn't you, doctor? It is a powerful book.

It tells about Moses and the Lamb. I'll tell you a story, Helen, about a Lamb that was slain. I've told you a great many, but never one like this. Come nearer, for I can't speak very loud. Take care, the thread is sliding off the spool. Cut it, doctor, cut it; it's winding round my heart so tight! Oh, my G.o.d! it snaps in two!"

These were the last words the aged spinster ever uttered. The main-spring of life was broken. When the cold, gray light of morning had extinguished the pallid splendor of the moon, and one by one the objects in the little room came forth from the dimness of shade, which a single lamp had not power to disperse, a great change was visible. The dark covering of the bed was removed, the bed itself was gone--but through a snowy white sheet that was spread over the frame, the outline of a tall form was visible. All was silent as the grave. A woman sat by the hearth, with a grave and solemn countenance--so grave and so solemn she seemed a fixture in that still apartment. The wheel stood still by the bed-frame, the spectacles lay still on the Bible, and a dark, gray dress hung in still, dreary folds against the wall.

After a while the woman rose, and walking on tiptoe, holding her breath as she walked, pulled the sheet a little further one side. Foolish woman! had she stepped with the thunderer's tread, she could not have disturbed the cold sleeper, covered with that snowy sheet.

Two or three hours after, the door opened and the young doctor entered with a young girl clinging to his arm. She was weeping, and as soon as she caught a glimpse of the white sheet she burst into loud sobs.

"We will relieve you of your watch a short time," said Arthur; and the woman left the room. He led Helen to the bedside, and turning back the sheet, exposed the venerable features composed into everlasting repose.

Helen did not recoil or tremble as she gazed. She even hushed her sobs, as if fearing to ruffle the inexpressible placidity of that dreamless rest. Every trace of harshness was removed from the countenance, and a serene melancholy reigned in its stead. A smile far more gentle than she ever wore in life, lingered on the wan and frozen lips.

"How benign she looks," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Helen, "how happy! I could gaze forever on that peaceful, silent face--and yet I once thought death so terrible."

"Life is far more fearful, Helen. Life, with all its feverish unrest, its sinful strife, its storms of pa.s.sion and its waves of sorrow. Oh, had you beheld the scene which I last night witnessed in this very room--a scene in which life revelled in wildest power, you would tremble at the thought of possessing a vitality capable of such unholy excitement--you would envy the quietude of that unbreathing bosom."

"And yet," said Helen, "I have often heard you speak of life as an inestimable, a glorious gift, as so rich a blessing that the single heart had not room to contain the grat.i.tude due."

"And so it is, Helen, if rightly used. I am wrong to give it so dark a coloring--ungrateful, because my own experience is bright beyond the common lot--unwise, for I should not sadden your views by antic.i.p.ation.

Yes, if life is fearful from its responsibilities, it _is_ glorious in its hopes and rich in its joys. Its mysteries only increase its grandeur, and prove its divine origin."

Thus Arthur continued to talk to Helen, sustaining and elevating her thoughts, till she forgot that she came in sorrow and tears.

There was another, who came, when he thought none was near, to pay the last tribute of sorrow over the remains of Miss Thusa, and that was Louis. He thought of his last interview with her, and her last words reverberated in his ear in the silence of that lonely room--"In the name of your mother in Heaven, go and sin no more."

Louis sunk upon his knees by that cold and voiceless form, and vowed, in the strength of the Lord, to obey her parting injunction. He could never now repay the debt he owed, but he could do more--he could be just to himself and the memory of her who had opened her lips wisely to reprove, and her hand kindly to relieve.

Peace be to thee, ancient sibyl, lonely dweller of the old gray cottage.

No more shall thy busy fingers twist with curious skill the flaxen fibres that wreath thy distaff--no more shall the hum of thy wheel mingle in chorus with the buzzing of the fly and the chirping of the cricket. But as thou didst say in thy dying hour, "the great wheel of eternity keeps rolling on," and thou art borne along with it, no longer a solitary, weary pilgrim, without an arm to sustain or kindred heart to cheer, but we humbly trust, one of that innumerable, glorious company, who, clothed in white robes and bearing branching palms, sing the great praise-song that never shall end, "Allelulia--the Lord G.o.d omnipotent reigneth."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Come, madness! come unto me senseless death, I cannot suffer this! here, rocky wall, Scatter these brains, or dull them."--_Baillie._

"I know not, I ask not, If guilt's in thy heart-- I but know that I love thee, Whatever thou art."--_Moore._

In a dark and gloomy apartment, whose grated windows and dreary walls were hung here and there with blackening cobwebs--and whose darkness and gloom were made visible by the pale rays of a glimmering lamp, sat the young, the handsome, the graceful, the fascinating Bryant Clinton. He sat, or rather partly reclined on the straw pallet, spread in a corner of the room, propped on one elbow, with his head drooping downward, and his long hair hanging darkly over his face, as if seeking to veil his misery and shame.

It was a poor place for such an occupant. He was a young man of leisure now, and had time to reflect on the past, the present, and the future.

The past!--golden opportunities, lost by neglect, swept away by temptation, or sold to sin. The present!--detection, humiliation, and ignominy. The future!--long and dreary imprisonment--companionship with the vilest of the vile, his home a tomb-like cell in the penitentiary--his food, bread and water--his bed, a handful of straw--his dress, the felon's garb of shame--his magnificent hair shorn close as the slaughtered sheep's--his soft white hands condemned to perpetual labor!

As this black scroll slowly unrolled before his spirit's eye, this black scroll, on which the characters and images gleamed forth so red and fiery, it is no wonder that he writhed and groaned and gnashed his teeth--it is no wonder that he started up and trod the narrow cell with the step of a maniac--that he stopped and ground his heel in the dust--that he rushed to the window and shook the iron bars, with unavailing rage--that he called on G.o.d to help him--not in the fervor of faith, but the recklessness of frenzy, the impotence of despair.

Suddenly a deadly sickness came over him, and reeling back to his pallet, he buried his face in his hands and wept aloud--and the wail of his soul was that of the first doomed transgressor, "My punishment is greater than I can bear."

While there he lies, a prey to keen and unavailing agonies, we will take a backward glance at the romance of his childhood, and the temptations of his youth.

Bryant Clinton was the son of obscure parents. When a little boy, his remarkable beauty attracted the admiration of every beholder. He was the pet of the village school, the favorite on the village green. His intelligence and grace were equal to his beauty, and all of these attributes combined in one of his lowly birth, seemed so miraculous, he was universally admitted to be a prodigy--a nonpareil. When he was about ten years of age, a gentleman of wealth and high social standing, was pa.s.sing through the town, and, like all strangers, was struck by the remarkable appearance of the boy. This gentleman was unmarried, though in the meridian of life, and of course, uncontrolled master of all his movements. He was very peculiar in character, and his impulses, rather than his principles, guided his actions. He did not love his relatives, because he thought their attentions were venal, and resolved to adopt this beautiful boy, not so much from feelings of benevolence towards him, as a desire to disappoint his mercenary kindred. Bryant's natural affections were not strong enough to prove any impediment to the stranger's wish, and his parents were willing to sacrifice theirs, for the brilliant advantages offered to their son. Behold our young prodigy transplanted to a richer soil, and a more genial atmosphere. His benefactor resided in a great city, far from the little village where he was born, so that all the a.s.sociations of his childhood were broken up and destroyed. He even took the name of his adopted father, thus losing his own ident.i.ty. Had Mr. Clinton been a man of pure and upright principles, had he been faithful to the guardianship he had a.s.sumed, and educated his _heart_, as well as his mind, Bryant might have been the ornament instead of the disgrace, the blessing instead of the bane of society. He had no salient propensities to evil, no faults which righteous wisdom might not have disciplined. But indulged, caressed, praised and admired by all around him, the selfishness inherent in our nature, acquired a hot-bed growth from the sultry moral atmosphere which he breathed.

The gentle, yet restraining influence which woman, in her purity and excellence, ever exerts, was unfortunately denied him. Mr. Clinton was a bachelor, and the careful, bustling housekeeper, who kept his servants and house in order, was not likely to burden herself with the charge of young Bryant's morals. All that Mr. Clinton supervised, was his progress at school, which surpa.s.sed even his most sanguine expectations. He was still the prodigy--the nonpareil--and as he had the most winning, insinuating manners--he was still the favorite of teachers and pupils.

As he grew older, he was taken much into society, and young as he was, inhaled, with the most intense delight, the incense of female adulation.

The smiles and caresses bestowed upon the boy-paragon by beautiful and charming women, instead of fostering his affections, as they would have done, had they been lavished upon him for his virtues rather than his graces, gave precocious growth and vigor to his vanity, till, like the cedar of Lebanon, it towered above all other pa.s.sions. This vanity was only visible to others in an earnest desire to please--it only made him appear more amiable and gentle, but it was so strong, so vital, that it could not, "but by annihilating, die."

Another fatal influence acted upon him. Mr. Clinton, like most rich bachelors, was fond of having convivial suppers, where wine and mirth abounded. To these young Bryant was often admitted, for his beauty and talents were the pride and boast of his adopted father. Here he was initiated into the secrets of the gaming-table, not by practice, (for he was not allowed to play himself,) but by observation, a medium of instruction sufficiently transparent to his acute and subtle mind. Here he was accustomed to hear the name of G.o.d uttered either in irreverence or blasphemy, and the cold sneer of infidelity withered the germs of piety a mother's hand had planted in his bosom. Better, far better had it been for him, never to have left his parent's humble but honest dwelling.

Just as he was about to enter college, Mr. Clinton suddenly died of a stroke of apoplexy, leaving the youth whom he had adopted, exposed to the persecutions of his worldly and venal relatives. He had resolved to make a will, bequeathing his property to Bryant, as his sole heir; but having a great horror of death, he could not bear to perform the act which would remind him too painfully of his mortality.