Woman As She Should Be Part 7

The Captain smiled as he observed Mr. Clifford's disappointed look, and turning to Mrs. Williamson, who was a.s.sisting his wife in divesting herself of her shawl and bonnet, inquired after her daughter.

"She is quite well, thank you," was her reply, "and was here a moment ago, but observing you in the distance, ran to inform her father; who is working beyond the hill at the back of the dwelling. She will be back shortly."

A slight sigh escaped from Mr. Clifford, unheard by all save his friend, who turned to him with a mischievous smile, which the former easily interpreted as, "I wonder which was right, you or I?"

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Williamson was entreating Mrs. Pierce to take some rest, "for indeed you look much in need of it," she added, "and I will have a cup of strong tea ready for you in a few moments, for you need something to refresh you, I am sure, after being so long on the salt water."

Her husband seconded Mrs. Williamson's advice.

"You had better go, my dear, and lay down for a little while, and you will feel vastly better, I a.s.sure you. As for me, I must now go back to the ship, but will return in time to join you in a good cup of tea, which, from past experience, I know will be excellent,--and I suppose I shall then see Mr. Williamson and daughter."

"Oh, yes, Sir," was the reply. "They should have been back before this; but I expect husband was farther off than Ellen imagined, and seeking for him has detained her."

Gaily waving an adieu, the Captain hurried away, and Mrs. Pierce following the fisherman's wife into her chamber, Ernest Clifford was left alone. He seated himself at the open cas.e.m.e.nt in a listless att.i.tude; for though he would hardly acknowledge it to himself, he could not help a feeling of disappointment in finding his air castle so quickly shattered.

The only object of attraction to be seen from the cas.e.m.e.nt was a fine view of the sea; but Ernest had been too long a sojourner on the wild waste of waters, not to have become weary of their monotony, and tired of gazing at what had been so long a familiar object, he turned his attention to the interior of the room. As he glanced round the apartment, he could not help admiring the spotless neatness which marked it, for everything was in the most perfect order, while the few ornaments and some pretty sh.e.l.ls, that the fisherman and Ellen's betrothed had brought on their return from different voyages, were tastefully arranged on the mantel-piece and tables, with several books, which, from the pencilled pa.s.sages he observed as he opened them, had evidently been well conned. In one, a small volume of miscellaneous poems, Ellen's name was inscribed on the fly-leaf, in a graceful Italian hand, evidently a lady's writing.

"This fisherman's daughter must certainly be a very superior person," he said to himself, as he turned over page after page, observing with the eye of a critic,--for literature to him had been a familiar study from early youth,--that the finest pa.s.sages were the only ones marked, proving, conclusively, that they had been the reader's favorites.

"Strange to find one like her in so remote and desolate a spot," and, half-aloud, he read the stanzas, in which he had just opened, smiling as he thought how true they were in this instance.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

He was interrupted by the clear, sweet tones of a woman's voice in an adjoining room.

"You will find my chamber quite comfortable, Mrs. Pierce, and I must insist on your sharing it, for there is abundance of room for us both."

"But I am afraid of discommoding you, my dear young lady, and can easily sleep on board, though I will take advantage of your kindness now, to rest on your bed for a short time."

"Indeed, my, dear Madam, I a.s.sure you, that you will be conferring a favor instead of receiving one, in sharing my apartment, while you remain, for it is such a delight to me to see the face of a countrywoman in this, the land of my exile."

"How long did Mrs. Williamson say it was since you were conveyed here?"

inquired Mrs. Pierce.

"Nearly six months."

"And what a dreary time you must have found it, my dear."

"No," said the sweet voice again, that sounded like music to the ear of the unintentional listener; "No," she repeated, "I have felt tolerably contented with my lot, and but for the remembrance of my friends and the sorrow they must have endured on my account, thinking, as they certainly must, that a watery grave has been my portion,--but for such remembrances I should have been comparatively happy. But you will never sleep," she added playfully, "if I go on chattering in this manner, so I will leave you to your much needed repose."

At this moment, the outer door of the cottage opened, and the Captain, accompanied by Mr. Williamson and his daughter, whom he had met as he was returning from the ship, entered the room, and a mutual introduction to Mr. Clifford took place.

The Captain, as he named "Ellen Williamson," looked roguishly at Mr.

Clifford, who returned his glance with an equally amused smile, but one that the Captain could not comprehend. Not sorry to find he was in the right, and with a little mischievous pleasure, as he imagined his friend's discomfiture, when the fair stranger,--for such from her conversation she evidently was,--should make her appearance, Ernest's eyes were riveted at the door, which communicated with an inner apartment, and at length his patient watching was rewarded.

The fisherman's wife, overhearing the Captain's somewhat loud though cheerful voice, hastened to meet him again, accompanied by Agnes, who was anxious to resume the employment which astonishment and emotion had caused her to throw aside. Besides, it must be confessed, she felt in no way averse to see again the stranger, whose striking similarity to her friend, had so deeply overcome her. From Mrs. Pierce she had already learned his name, and also a sketch of his history, from the period of her first acquaintance with him, and thrillingly interesting as it was, Agnes could not help feeling attracted towards one who had suffered so much, and who, like herself, had been an unwilling exile from his native land.

Captain Pierce, who was sitting with his face turned from the door, and who, moreover, was engaged in relating to Mr. Williamson the particulars of his voyage, did not, at first, observe the new comer; but as she advanced nearer, he abruptly paused in the conversation, and with a glance--as full of astonishment and perplexity as Ernest, who was now an amused spectator, could desire--intently regarded her.

"I see you wonder, Captain, how this young lady, whose name is Miss Wiltshire," said Mrs. Williamson, "took up her residence in this out of the way place; but Elliot, on his return voyage from H---- in November, happened, fortunately, to rescue her from the waves, into which she was thrown by the upsetting of a boat, and having brought her here, she has remained ever since in this dreary place, at least it must be such to her, for she has had no opportunity of returning to her friends."

With her customary grace, Agnes returned the Captain's and Mr.

Clifford's respectful greeting, and resumed again her embroidery, disclaiming, however, as she did so, the epithet of dreary, as being quite inappropriate, in her estimation, to the place which had afforded her so hospitable a shelter.

"It would be impossible for me to find any spot dreary," she said, "inhabited by so many kind friends, and from whom I have received such true tokens of hospitality; and while I confess to an eager desire to behold again my relatives, it will not be without very great pain that I shall part from those whose warmest sympathies and tenderest care were exercised towards a helpless stranger."

"I have heard," said Mr. Pierce, turning to Mrs. Williamson, whose countenance told the emotion she felt at the intimation of Agnes's speedy departure, "I have heard of =some= entertaining 'angels unawares,' and I should judge you have been thus fortunate, Mrs. W."

"You may, indeed, say so, Sir," said the good woman, wiping away a tear with the corner of her ap.r.o.n; "I cannot tell you what a blessing this young lady has been, not only to my family, but to the whole neighborhood. Indeed, Sir, you would be surprised to see what a change has been effected by her in this place. Miss Wiltshire has established a day school for the children, and a night cla.s.s for the young people; and our Sabbaths, that some spent in sleep, others in doing nothing, or worse than nothing, now pa.s.s in a very different manner, for we have both Church and Sabbath school, and 'come up with those that keep holy day.' What we shall do without her, I cannot imagine, though, to be sure, it would be dreadfully selfish in me to wish her to stay longer, for those to whom she belongs must be breaking their hearts after so lovely a creature."

The above conversation, which was addressed particularly to the Captain, was delivered in an under-tone, and was therefore unheard by Agnes, who was an attentive listener to Mr. Clifford, as he called up all the varied powers of his fine intellect for the purpose of describing the scenes through which he had pa.s.sed; and he was well rewarded for his efforts by the sweet smile, and breathless interest, with which Agnes heard the narration.

CHAPTER XII.

"What a lovely evening," exclaimed Arthur Bernard, as rising from his seat, by the invalid's couch, he drew aside the thick folds of the crimson damask curtains, allowing the glorious rays of the full-orbed moon to illuminate the apartment.

"My dear Sir," he said kindly, turning to Mr. Denham, the uncle of Agnes, for he it was who reclined on the velvet lounge, propped up by pillows, "I am sure it would do you good, on a fine spring day such as this has been, to take a short drive through the suburbs of the city.

The fresh, balmy air of delightful May would prove, as your physician told you, yesterday, the best restorative; better, far better, than all his drugs; and, besides, it will divert your mind to mark the dawn of summer, to witness how quickly, almost instantaneously, the trees have put forth their leaves, and in the parks and fields, how thick and verdant Nature's flowery carpet. Can I not prevail upon you to accompany me to-morrow in a short drive? I know, on your return, you will not regret having been persuaded to try the efficacy of my prescription."

The invalid shook his head, sadly.

"You are very kind, Arthur," he said, "in taking such interest in a querulous old man, like me, and I would gratify you; but, indeed, it is not the illness of the body of which I complain, for that only suffers in sympathy with the mind. Fresh breezes may fan the brow, and verdant scenes charm the eye, but tell me,

'Can they minister to a mind diseased, Or pluck from mem'ry's roots a barbed arrow?'

If you promise that they can accomplish such wonders as these, then shall I gladly try your prescription."

"No, Sir," was the reply; "admirer as I am of Nature, and powerful as I deem her ministrations, I dare not undertake in her name, to promise that she shall perform such a miracle as this. From bitter, yet salutary experience, I know that the sick heart may turn even with loathing from her loveliest scenes, as being but reminders of by-gone happiness, awakening a.s.sociations too painful for the spirit calmly to contemplate." He paused abruptly, and then in a lower tone repeated to himself, as he gazed on the beautiful, park-like grounds, that surrounded Mr. Denham's residence, fair to view at all times, but never lovelier than when illumined, as now, by the soft rays of the full-orbed moon,--

"Since my Alexis withers in the tomb, Untimely fades, nor sees a second bloom; Ye hills and groves no more your landscapes please, Nor give my soul one interval of ease; Delight and joy forever flee your shades,-- And mournful care your solitude invades."

"But, my dear Mr. Denham," he said, as he turned from contemplating the scene without, and resumed his seat near the invalid's couch, "though I cannot promise that Nature will afford you the elixir you require, your case is not, cannot be hopeless, while there is balm in Gilead, while there is a Physician there."

"I know well what you would say, Arthur Bernard, and it is easy for you to speak thus, who have never known the horrors of remorse; who have never been haunted by the vision of a sweet face, drowned in tears, whose look of affection was repelled by coldness and harshness. Ah, had you known my dearly loved Agnes as I have; had you watched from infancy each expanding grace, until she grew to be your heart's idol; had you loved her with a love like mine"--

Arthur Bernard groaned involuntarily, but the old man unheeding went on.

"And then, because her pure mind could not be content to feed on the husks of worldly vanity, and sought for more congenial nourishment, banish her from your presence, for the very cause that should have rendered her dear beyond all price, and that banishment to have such a termination; to think that the wild salt waves should cover my darling, that the winds should be her requiem, that I shall never hear that sweet voice p.r.o.nounce my forgiveness,--oh, it is too much, too much for human nature to bear, though I deserve it all.

"Talk not to me, Arthur Bernard," and the invalid, in the energy of pa.s.sion, half-raised himself from the couch, "talk not to me, I beseech you, of balm in Gilead, or of a Physician there; others, who have not sinned as I have done, may find forgiveness, but as for me, unless the treacherous sea restore my darling to my arms, there is never more peace or comfort for me, but my gray hairs shall go down with sorrow to the tomb."

He sank back exhausted by the violence of his emotions, and silence reigned through the apartment for a few moments, its two occupants seemingly absorbed in painful thought.

To Arthur the reflection of the almost certain destiny that had befallen her who had, unconsciously to himself, shared so large a portion of his affections, was indeed fraught with anguish; the void she had left he felt, day by day, could never be replaced, and in reference to a pa.s.sion at once so absorbing and constant, he might well have adopted, as embodying his own experience, the language of the poet:--