Chapter XLIII: Authorship

When people tell us that the chain of human sympathies is limited to propinquity, it is a proof that they have studied little and felt less of those mental phenomena that are fast resolving themselves into a science. There have been hearts so linked together that intense affection annihilated space, and one suffering soul has imparted its anguish to the twin soul thousands and thousands of miles away. On the morning when Daniel Hart’s trial took place in the far West, Hetty Hart awoke with a terrible foreboding of evil which no argument of her sister’s could conquer and calm. She lay under her canopy of delicate lace with burning eyes and scarlet cheeks when Mrs. Ransom entered to inquire after her rest.

“I have not slept, Sarah, not one moment, I do believe, through the whole night. If I did seem to be dropping into a doze, something would make me start up and scream for help till my own voice was frightful.”

Sarah went up to the bed and laid her hand on the poor woman’s forehead, where pain was beating like a pulse.

“But you will sleep now,” she said, gently soothing the anguish with her soft palm. “Let me kiss the place and make it well; our mother used to say that, you know, Hetty.”

“Our mother, Sarah! ah, me, I have almost forgotten her! Love for him—my own darling son—has driven every thing else out of my life. Our mother was good; but she never dreamed of such mad, aching love as I feel for my child.”

“My poor sister,” answered Sarah, stooping down and repeating the kiss she had given so kindly, “yours has been a hard life.”

“Oh, bitter, bitter as gall and wormwood, Sarah! Think what it was to chain down and hide this great love in my heart, year after year, year after year, when it was draining my life out. I could only see him once in a long, long while, and then he seemed to think it so strange that I took an interest in him; and when I sat with my poor hands clasped and my lips pressed together, trying so hard to conquer the hungry yearning for one kiss—one little kiss from my own child—he would look at me so indifferently, and once I heard him say, as I went out, ‘I wonder what the old maid came for?’ It nearly broke my heart, Sarah!”

“But he knows you now, and loves you dearly, I am sure,” said Mrs. Ransom, greatly affected; “how could he help it, my poor sister?—for no mother ever suffered as you have.”

“Yes, yes, I think he loves me; yet he went away, and I had been ill, worse than you know of—a great deal worse.”

“I know that you are ill, Hetty,” said Sarah, tenderly.

“Sometimes,” added Hetty, and her burning eyes filled with tears, “sometimes it seems to smother me to live in this house. Last night the wind came in through an open window. The curtains fluttered over me like wings, and it seemed as if they wanted to carry me off to him. I got out of bed and tried to come to you, but I am not so very strong, and somehow my limbs gave way, so I crept back again. Then a voice seemed to cry out, warning me of something. Don’t smile, Sarah: I know it was the wind moaning through the trees back of the house; but it was so like a human voice, that I answered, ‘Yes, son, I would follow you, but God has taken away my strength.’”

“What a terrible night you have spent!” said Mrs. Ransom, suppressing her tears with difficulty. “I hope Michael will yet reward all this love.”

“Not Michael, Sarah, but William; the name was his father’s, and you shall give him that—nobody shall call him Hurst after this. Our secret has tortured me so long, that I have no shame left—nothing but love for him and for you, Sarah. I always loved you—always—always.”

“Indeed, you did, my poor sister? but try to sleep now. Every thing will seem brighter when you have had a good, long nap,” said Mrs. Ransom.

But Hetty only started up in bed and began beating her laced pillows.

“They are hard as rocks,” she moaned; “I would rather attempt to sleep on red-hot stones. It’s of no use trying to make them easy—nothing can do that; won’t you let a little air into the room? but, no, that will set the curtains to fluttering again, and it seems so ghostly.”

“Dear Hetty, you are very nervous this morning.”

“Am I? Yes, I dare say; but the trouble seems too real for that. I have been nervous all my life, you know; but it did not hold my heart like this. It seems as if something dreadful would happen before to-morrow.”

Hetty shuddered among her pillows and clasped her hands in a sort of agony.

“What is it, dear?” said Mrs. Ransom. “There is nothing that should distress you so!”

“There is—there is,” she whispered.

Sarah saw how deeply the poor thing was affected, and began to soothe her, as she would have hushed a child out of its nameless grief. She took off the pretty cap and smoothed out the gray hair gathered underneath. Two years before those tresses were only threaded here and there with silver; now they fell upon the pillows white as snow. Sarah sighed heavily as she remarked the mournful change. Hetty lifted her large eyes to her sister’s face.

“It was the second sin that did it,” she said.

“Forget that, dear; no one else will remember any thing, except that you have loved and suffered.”

“You were always kind to me, Sarah, very kind. I thought you dead so long, and then I felt like the morning-glory vines that you and I used to tend when the wind broke down their support; but nothing ever could make me forget you. It is very strange—isn’t it? but I was hardly surprised when you came back and took the second load from my conscience. I was so glad to tell the truth. It was like rolling a great stone from my heart. He thought all these silk curtains and lace and soft carpets would make me happy, but I longed—oh, with what aching desire!—for our old chamber overlooking the orchard. It was cruel of Daniel to leave the old house, when I begged and prayed so hard that he would stay. The homestead is empty now, Sarah. The home that you and I loved is desolate as the grave. Neither I nor my boy have a right to any thing. It does seem hard, when his father owned all, and one hour more of life would have made him the heir.”

“Hetty,” said Sarah, still smoothing the white hair with her hands, “are you sure that William Bentley started for the homestead in order to be married?”

“Am I sure?” cried Hetty, starting up; “am I sure of my life? I tell you, sister, had he lived twenty-four hours I should have been his wedded wife. That very morning I got a letter from him saying so.”

“Yes,” said Sarah, thoughtfully, “it is hard, but I can answer for Mr. Bentley. He will not only forgive your son, but provide for him as if he were his own.”

“Oh, Sarah! why couldn’t you have let him marry Gillian? It might be yet, if you would only insist—no one could ever oppose you.”

“Hush! do not speak of that again; it is impossible,” replied Sarah, in a cold voice that silenced Hetty, but set her to trembling violently.

After a while Sarah spoke on another subject, striving to draw the invalid’s mind from her one idea.

“Hetty, you have never told me about our father: how he lived after I came away, and how he died. Was it calmly, as a noble Christian should pass from one world to another?”

“Don’t ask me about him, Sarah, please; I was so afraid of my father after that. He was very good, but I crept out of his way till the very sight of him made me tremble, for it seemed to me that sooner or later he must know. But he never did.”

“Was he long ill, Hetty?”

“Not a single hour. He had been out in the wood-shed for an armful of kindling pine, and was bringing it in when he stumbled at the threshold. Daniel ran forward and caught him in his arms, but he never breathed again.”

“Then there was no farewell—no explanation—no blessings?” said Sarah, mournfully.

“Not a word, and I was coward enough to be glad. Had he looked into my face with his dying eyes I should have told every thing.”

“Would to heaven you had! How much misery might have been spared us all!”

“Are you blaming me?” said Hetty, in a tone of fretful pain.

“Blaming you, Hetty—did I ever do that?”

“But you think that I ought to have confessed. You are dwelling on the sacrifices you have made. I don’t wonder. Still it wasn’t like being separated from one’s own child.”

Sarah smiled a little bitterly but said nothing. In her egotism Hetty had forgotten that the blameless sister had been separated entirely from her only child and the husband she adored, all for her sin.

“That will do,” said the sick woman at last, withdrawing her head from that sisterly hand. “Just go out now, please, and perhaps I shall get a little sleep.”

Sarah went out, hoping that the suffering woman would indeed sleep. But all that morning Hetty continued to sit up in bed and moan out the unaccountable distress that had seized upon her.

“I know that he is sick, suffering, struggling with his enemies,” she would moan. “They are hunting him down, wounding him. Wolves, gaunt, horrible wolves lie in wait for him; still, but ah, how hungry! I can feel them creeping along the earth, dragging themselves on the ground, whimpering with impatience. I will go to him. He is my son, mine, mine! I am not ashamed to own it. The secret was rolled from my heart long ago.”

These strange fancies would seize upon her at times with more or less violence, but she slept a little during the day, and once or twice Sarah found her resting in comparative quiet when she stole softly into the sick chamber.

Toward evening she grew worse. The fever raged hot and high in her veins; her wild eyes grew dazzling, her burning hands were forever clutching each other and tearing themselves apart with restless action.

Darkness crept over the city, black darkness in which the sultry air seemed stagnant. Then the fever burning in that frail form flamed up, leaving her thin cheeks scarlet, and her lips dry as dead flowers.

An hour after dark the anguish that seized upon her was terrible. She sat up in bed doing fierce battle with the pillows and tearing at the curtains. Low cries issued from her lips. She made wild efforts to leave her bed and flee away, crying out that she was pursued—that thousands of wolves lay crouching in the bushes ready to seize upon her. Then she uttered a succession of terrible shrieks, which ended in choking groans; her hands flew upward to her throat, tearing some imaginary thing away. The groans grew fainter and fainter, and with them came gushes of warm, red blood. It was this that strangled her. She could not breathe through the scarlet torrent.

At eight o’clock Mehitable Hart died. That very night and hour her son was hanging in the red illumination of the blacksmith’s window, hundreds of miles away.

Sarah Bentley went with her sister’s remains into Rockland county, and laid them to rest in the same ground with her father, praying that she might have found the good old man in the presence of that Divine Being who forgives so much to his feeble creatures. Out of the desolate old homestead they carried that erring one: through the orchard where she had gathered early summer-apples, and across the meadow where the sisters had made dandelion chains when little children, along the path which Sarah had trod so often in a brave effort to save that silent one, they bare the coffin along. There was no mourner but Sarah—not even a farm servant, to honor his old mistress; all had been scattered by her secret sin, yet old neighbors bore her to the grave with solemn respect, and lifted their hats reverently when the coffin passed. A little way from the family burying-spot was a solitary grave. The grass had grown rank over it, and a ponderous monument of marble marked it as the resting-place of some wealthy man. Not by her father, but here, close by the grave of William Bentley, they laid his frail love down to sleep, and on the pure marble of his monument a record was cut which the angels must have forgiven that noble sister for placing there—a record which told the world that Mehitable, relict of William Bentley, lay by his side.

As Sarah returned to the homestead where some of the old furniture remained, a man came forth to meet her. He had been walking up and down the porch, waiting anxiously for her return. Sarah held forth her hand, smiling a sad welcome.

“Woodworth,” she said, “my dear, dear friend, God has sent you to me in my utter loneliness!”

“I have been away in the South, hoping by travel to wear out the time which lies between me and my bride,” he said, speaking low in respect to her sad mood. “They told me at the house that you had come up here on a mournful errand, and I followed you.”

“Yes,” said Sarah, with quivering lips, and eyes full of tears, “this is a sad day for me.”

Woodworth looked upon her in astonishment. He knew her character well, and was not surprised that she should feel the death of any human being keenly; but there was a depth and poignancy of sorrow here that troubled him.

“Why do you mourn this lady so deeply?” he said. “She did not strike me as a person calculated to draw forth such regret. Ah, my friend, will you never learn to suffer less for others?”

“Hush,” answered Sarah, gently; “Mehitable Hart was my sister, my only and dear sister.”

“Mrs. Ransom!”

“That is not my name, Woodworth, though one that I hope has not been dishonored in my keeping. I am Sarah Bentley, the mother of Gillian.”

He grasped both her hands in his, speechless with the joy of this surprise.

“What! you—you—her mother and mine!”

“Her mother, certainly, and yours if you care to call me so,” was the gentle answer.

“I always felt that you were destined to be something to me,” he cried; “but this is beyond belief—and Gillian knows it?”

“Not yet. They had left New York before I arrived, but I have sent a messenger to tell them.”

“A messenger: what messenger?”

“Young Bentley, the person we knew as Michael Hurst.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ransom—I beg your pardon—Mrs. Bentley, will you never learn prudence? Why did you send this false man on an errand so delicate?”

Sarah shook her head in mild disapproval. “Suspicious as ever,” she said, “always seeing the dark side of a character, like a true lawyer.”

“But I tell you this young man is treacherous; I very much doubt if he had any claim whatever to your husband’s estate.”

“I know that he had none,” answered Sarah, tranquilly, “but the temptation was great, and the laws harsh in visiting a parent’s sin on his offspring.”

“But you admit that this young man perpetrated a great fraud against your husband: how then can you trust him? He will surely betray you.”

“I do not think so badly of human nature,” answered Sarah, with a grave smile. “I have been his best friend.”

“So much the more reason why a man like that will turn upon you.”

“Oh, cynic and unbeliever.”

“I wish it were possible to instil some of my distrust into your nature, my sweet friend,” said Woodworth, smiling in spite of himself; “but come in, if this empty old house affords a spot where we can converse comfortably. I am all curiosity to hear the particulars of this life-romance.”

Sarah opened the front door and entered the sitting-room. Some kind neighbor had built a fire on the hearth and dusted the old-fashioned couch and chairs. The two friends sat down on the couch, and, with her hands in Woodworth’s, Sarah told him all. “He is my daughter’s betrothed,” she said inly, “and in our household we will hereafter have no secrets.”

“And so this is the way in which your author’s life commenced?” said Woodworth, reverently pressing the hands in his.

Sarah smiled through her tears, for a sort of self-pity had seized upon her while telling of her early trials, and she wept more than once like a child.

“Yes, we tried to earn something by needlework—sister Hetty and I—but what can a poor woman do with her needle? I had always been writing little sketches and scraps of poetry, only to hide them away under the shingles of the garret. It was a thing I could not help and was afraid to speak of; for my father was a very religious man, and looked upon the parables almost as an unauthorized interpolation of the Scriptures. I had many bright, high thoughts in those days, which would not die out unexpressed. I did not know what all this meant at the time, for these thoughts came before I had a full knowledge of the method whereby books were created. But I never heard a hymn out of measure in church without an impulse to supply the missing cadence, and would wander off from the dry books in my father’s little stock to think how much more beautiful they might be made.

“When my sister’s troubles came, and the need of money for the support of her child pressed upon us, it broke on me like an inspiration, one night, that God had given me some gifts by which my sister’s child might be kept from perishing, and her good name saved. I got up in the night. We were on Long Island, and poor Hetty had her baby with her for a day or two: he was ill and troublesome, but we thought it a great blessing even to hear him cry. I took the boy from his sleeping mother’s bosom, and carried him up and down the room, framing my first real poem as I walked, and kissing his warm cheek between the pauses. It was an exciting subject. There had been a revolution beyond sea, and tyranny had crushed it down. I imagined the condition of a mother and her son, when the husband and father was brought home dead—no matter about the rest. I had a great object, and a theme which made every pulse in my heart thrill with patriotism. I wonder the loud beating of my heart did not frighten the babe: on the contrary, the heave and fall of my bosom seemed to rock him into a sweet slumber. Hetty slept on, with her hands clasped and a smile on her lips, evidently dreaming that the boy was in her arms yet.

“When the poem was finished—for I did not write a line till the next day—I lifted the boy up and gave him a thrilling kiss of joy. ‘It is good,’ I said. ‘It is poetry, I know—such poetry as thrills the public heart, or it could not have left so much fire in mine.’

“I spoke aloud in my exultation. The boy awoke, and smiled upon me. I clasped him close, raining kisses on his face; I must have kissed something, then, or burst into tears.

“‘We will find a way of earning bread for you yet, my little fellow,’ I said; ‘wait a while, and, God willing, we will give you an education that shall be better than gold.’

“The boy smiled and beat the air with his tiny hands, as if to say, ‘Only give me the means, and I’ll show you how a youngster can cut his own path through the world.’

“It was a singular confidence—that which I bestowed on the baby that night; but his bright eyes gave me inspiration, and I whispered a thousand silly hopes to him, as I walked the chamber, clasping him close to my bosom. After a while I took him to bed, and then a reaction came over me, as I reviewed the poem I had written only in my mind; it grew tame and commonplace: my brains went vigorously to work making changes, and the daylight found me worn out and disappointed with the whole.

“The next day I went to the city. Up to this time I had never mentioned the idea of my life to any human being. I neither knew an author or publisher in the world; but I had read good books, and knew that the men and women who wrote many of them must be living. One man, the author of some novels of great power and originality, which had made themselves known abroad, as well as at home, I had seen. His brilliant lecture before some literary society had thrilled my whole being in the listening. I had never spoken to this man in my life; but he was the first author I had ever seen face to face, and he seemed like an old acquaintance, long before the lecture closed. I knew where this man lived, and went to his house with my manuscript poem written out. ‘He is a poet and a great man,’ I said, ‘and such people must love to aid those who cannot help following after them.’ So I went to his house less timidly than you may suppose. He sat in his study writing, when I entered; he was engaged on some law paper, I think, for he was a hardworking man, and tamed his genius down to many a severe, dry study.

“This man scarcely seemed surprised at seeing me, but rose from his seat and came forward with a bright, cordial smile on one of the finest faces I ever saw.

“I scarcely remember what I said, or how that poem got into his hand; but we sat down by his desk together, and he read it carefully. A smile beamed all over his face more than once. Then he would shake his head, and two lines which ran down between his brows drew close together, and I felt that there was some fault of sentiment or rhythm which jarred on his fine senses. But the predominating expression, and I read every change keenly, was one of surprise and pleasure.

“‘Well,’ he said, laying down the paper, ‘how many of these things have you written?’

“‘Only this,’ I answered.

“‘And what can I do for you, my child?’ he resumed, with a smile that made my heart leap.

“‘Tell me if it is good for any thing.’

“‘Good for anything! Yes, child, it is good for a great deal.’

“‘And I need not be ashamed to offer it to some paper or magazine?’

“‘With half an hour’s polishing, I should not be ashamed to offer it as my own.’

“I burst into tears. Till that moment I had not understood how intense was the anxiety that brought me there.

“‘But how can I make it more worthy?’ I inquired, ashamed of this outburst, and trying to laugh. ‘It seemed easy enough in the night, when the whole thing first came to me; but this morning I felt that it was very imperfect, but could not tell where or why.’

“‘I dare say,’ he answered, laughing. ‘Poets do not leap into perfection at a single bound. Genius is but a species of madness, without study, perseverance, industry, and a great deal of common-sense.’

“‘I am industrious,’ was my answer; ‘and if you say that there is hope for me I will persevere; for I have a great object to attain.’

“‘Indeed? And so young!’

“He uttered these words half as an exclamation and half as a question. I felt the color flash into my face, but said nothing in reply. He had compassion on my embarrassment; and, taking up a pencil, began to mark the faults in my poem. I watched him with hushed breath, and with every dash of the pencil my heart went down heavily. He looked up from the paper and saw that I was growing pale.

“‘It is a beautiful poem, a noble poem,’ he said, ‘and should have no imperfections.’

“Again my eyes filled with tears. I could have knelt down and worshipped that man for his kindness; yet he was a severe critic, and dealt with me as a father teaches the child he desires to improve.

“‘There,’ he said, giving the paper into my hands again, ‘I have marked the faults—you must remedy them; but let me explain.’

“He went over the poem line by line, told me where I was wrong—that this word jarred with another far away, making discord to a sensitive ear. But the subject, the soul and spirit, he did not attempt to disturb. ‘That was the rich, rough gold,’ he said, ‘which industry and taste formed into shapes of beauty.’

“This liberal praise neutralized the humiliation of those pencil-marks. He was so genial, so earnest in his attempts to lead me safely into the path of letters, that I was constantly forgetting that an hour before we had been strangers.

“When the poem had been sufficiently scrutinized, he pleasantly turned the conversation on myself. In my earnestness of purpose I had forgotten even to give him my name. Now, I told him frankly all about my life in the country, the scraps of verse that lay hidden under the old rafters of the homestead, and of my grand old father, with his stern sense of right, his clear judgment and indomitable pride.

“My author was a New England man, and he understood this character well. He seemed to be delighted with the fresh feelings that I had brought in from my country-life, and we became fast friends from that pleasant hour. When I left him, there was not a passage in my life that he did not know, except the painful secret which lay between me and my sister. That was not mine to reveal, and in my innermost soul I had sworn to keep it from all mortal knowledge.

“As I was going out, my new friend said to me, in his prompt, impetuous way, ‘Wait a moment; I had forgotten; you will want to publish that.’

“‘Yes,’ I faltered; ‘it is important.’

“‘Do you know any publisher?’

“‘No, I am a stranger here.’

“‘Stop, I will give you a letter to one who has some faith in my judgment. Take the poem to him—that is when you have completed it; but be careful about the proofs.’

“‘The proofs!’ I repeated, in utter bewilderment, for I knew no more about the process of printing than a child.

“He laughed again, and commenced walking up and down the room, jingling a bunch of keys in his hands, delighted as a child at having found any thing so ridiculously unsophisticated.

“‘Well, well, child, when they send you some long strips of thin paper with your poem printed on it, come to me and I will teach you to correct it. The whole thing is simple enough when you know how. But send the proof to me—send it to me!’

“I was distressed by the thought of claiming such help from a man of his position, and said so.

“‘My child,’ he answered, with gentle seriousness, ‘God’s creatures are intended to help each other. Some of these days you will be doing the same thing.’

“I laughed at the absurd idea. The greatest wish I had at the moment was to win a support for my sister’s child. Thoughts of fame or greatness had never yet entered my mind; and I doubt very much if lasting power ever came out of efforts which find their root in mere selfish ambition.

“I went home with a sweet hope at my heart, and spent that day in finishing up my poem. It was wonderful how that one lesson had enkindled my mind. It seized upon the suggestions in those pencil-marks, and turned them into ideas that made my soul glow. When it was finished, the poem seemed like a new creation to me. I began to love it again.

“The next day, early, I went to the publisher of a magazine with my note of introduction. Fortunately he happened to be disengaged, and seeing, perhaps, the keen anxiety in my face, read the manuscript at once. Oh, how my heart beat as he unfolded the paper! I watched his eyes as they fell from line to line, but could read nothing there. He folded the paper, seemed to think a moment, then thrust it into a pigeon-hole in his desk, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer.

“‘If this will be satisfactory,’ he said, without a word of comment, ‘I shall be pleased to hear from you again.’

“I took the bank notes that he held toward me with strange feelings of mingled exultation and humility—exultation that one effort of my pen had achieved so much; shame that I could take money for a God-gifted talent. But the publisher neither saw the trembling of my limbs or the burning of my cheek. To him our interview was ended, and he began to search among his papers with the constraint of a person who wished to be alone. I wanted to thank him for the great joy he had given me, but he grew more and more intent on his papers, and nodded at them rather than me when I left the room.

“When I reached home and found myself quite alone in my chamber, I glanced at the money; then unfolded it, and was frightened at the amount. It was not much, as we value these things now, but I must have worked a month at my needle—nay, two months—for the notes that fluttered in my hand. Still I looked at them shyly, and hid them away about my person like a thief. It was impossible to convince myself that they were honestly mine, that I had not been receiving an abject charity, or, worse yet, practising some fraud on the deluded publisher. But the money was there, and for some weeks, at least, that unfortunate child, thrice loved because of the pity which came with him had been provided for. That relief was a blessing which made itself felt through my whole being.

“I did not tell Hetty how the money had been earned; but she knew that I possessed it; and we went for help and counsel to Mr. Frost, a blessed old minister of the gospel, whose life was spent in such deeds as make angels brighten with beautiful hopes of humanity. He gave both. A good nurse was found for the child, and we went home to Rockland county, carrying our secret burden into the old homestead. I had made arrangements with the publisher, through my noble friend, and contributed little sketches and poems for his magazine every month. But Hetty worked on with her needle industriously as ever, and with every package of manuscript we sent down parcels of fine needlework, which the poor soul spent half her nights in getting ready for the fancy-stores. I would have prevented this, but she took pathetic pleasure in her toil, and grew almost jealous that I should have the power of contributing more money toward her child’s support than she was capable of earning. This was the beginning of my real life. I was not content with scribbling light things now and then, but studied hard and toiled over my productions when the passion of composition was over; copying, recopying, condensing, and elaborating them, till they soon won a place among the favored contributions of the magazine I wrote for. My noble friend had taught me that authorship was no holiday work, and that pink and blue ribbons did not often tie up the best manuscript. I felt then, and I feel more intensely now, that a profession which has its groundwork in immortal thought should not be undertaken lightly; that fame, when it ennobles womanhood, should, like sacred incense, float only over the pure of purpose and the strong of soul. To create is to be grand. The priest who proves false to his religion is less unworthy than the woman who, being an author, degrades the dignity of her sex, or the glory of pure thought.”

Sarah Ransom spoke rapidly and with the force of deep feeling, for she knew well that her auditor gave a noble sympathy to every word she uttered, and put no restraint upon the enthusiasm that kindled her face and lighted her eyes like an outburst of sunshine. It was not often that this woman gave out so much of the life which was within her; she was in many respects a woman of the world, and understood the public level too well for much exhibition of feeling except with her most intimate friends. As the true Christian feels reluctant to drag that which is most sacred to him into public comment, she seldom unvailed the thoughts that broke from her now. But as the memories of her life rose more and more vividly before her, she spoke without hesitation, feeling how completely the man who listened understood her. Woodworth said little; her narrative interested him deeply, and he was reluctant to turn its course even by a word.

She looked at him with her kindling eyes, that had grown almost black within the hour.

“Have I been talking too ardently, my friend? Is this egotism?”

“It is the truth, and I love to hear it. Go on.”

“Where was I?” she said. “Oh, I remember.”

The light went slowly out from her face, a tearful sound stole up through her voice.

“Then my husband came. We loved each other. I can say no more than that—we loved each other and were married. He was a noble man, Woodworth, proud, sensitive, exacting sometimes, but still truly noble. I married him with that burden on my soul. But for that—oh, but for that cruel, cruel secret our happiness would have been perfect. It was almost so for a while, for the power of my love was so great that it overwhelmed every thing. I could look up to this man with proud reverence. I was neither ashamed nor afraid when my love grew into worship. I was sometimes haughty with other men, and liked to feel my own superiority; but with him, the best gifts I possessed seemed too commonplace for attention. I was ambitious for him, never for myself. I wanted the whole world to acknowledge his perfections as I did. Such love is only felt once in a lifetime; it can neither change nor die, but must live forever, a joy or a pain. When it turned to pain with us the agony was worse than death.”

Here the noble woman paused: her face had became white as snow; there was a shiver of pain in her voice. The hand that she laid on Woodworth’s was cold.

“I cannot dwell on this. In the very midst of our happiness, when I was a mother, and we both worshipped the new soul born to us, he discovered the existence of _that_ child, and traced out the chain of events which seemed to fasten the disgrace of its life on me. My heart had never dreamed how proud it was till this charge was made by _his_ lips. It swallowed up every other feeling and refused even an attempt at explanation. I was mad with the anguish of this undeserved shame. ‘He should have known me better,’ I cried, in the stillness of my solitary room. I would have blinded my own eyes rather than believe them, if they saw evil in him. Yet he condemns me even at the first word. What if he did see that wretched child in my arms—on my bosom—with its lips to mine, and its hands in my hair, crowing and laughing at the sight of me? What if I had, long ago, in my girlhood, sold needlework at the shops to support it, and had, since our marriage, used some of the money he lavished on me so lovingly when I was too happy for writing? Was that a reason why he should fix these loathsome suspicions on his wife?

“These were the thoughts that wounded me for many a long, dreary night. But no explanation was made. I could give none without casting the burden, that I was strong enough to bear, on my poor sister, who would have been crushed into the grave by it. I had promised, and I kept my promise the more resolutely because I would have trusted him, or, if not that, forgiven him without explanation.

“Sometimes the anguish of our nearness, and yet complete sunderance, was so terrible that I faltered; but one thought of my old father, with his puritanical pride, gave back my firmness, and I learned ‘to suffer and grow strong.’

“The torture of this life lasted till we had dragged our misery beyond seas, out of the reach of scandal. At Naples we separated finally. Our child was placed in a convent. He went eastward to the Holy Land. I was left alone.”

Mrs. Ransom struggled with the tears that had completely stopped her voice, and spoke again.

“Forgive me, but sometimes I cannot help giving way to this self-pity,” she said, attempting to smile, but failing mournfully. “I was very ill then for a long time. Oh, my friend, my friend, it is not the hearts that break which suffer most! I got better at last, and began to creep out into the open air on cloudy days—the sunshine seemed to wound me. One day, a woman who seemed above the common beggars, came up to me and in her sympathetic language entreated a little money to buy food with. I took a piece of silver from my purse and gave it to her. She looked at the coin and at me; her fine eyes shone with sudden tears; she pressed kisses on my hand. In my whole life I had never witnessed so sudden an exhibition of joy.

“The coin I had given this woman only possessed the value of five shillings, but it had made her happy. I stood watching her, as she disappeared down a side-street, with envy. What on earth would ever make me happy again?

“As I walked on, a thought came to me, born of this incident. It said: ‘While you have the power to make others happy with so little effort, what right have you to give up all as lost?’

“I went home to my apartments filled with new vigor. Hitherto my life in Naples had been isolated. I had been too selfishly wretched for any thought of doing good to others. As I went up-stairs, a woman, that I had often seen about the house, met me. Her eyes were flushed; she had been weeping, and looked at me wistfully, as if afraid to speak out something that troubled her mind.

“I stopped at once, and inquired what I could do for her.

“‘Oh, Signora!’ she said, ‘it is not for myself that I grieve, but the poor lady overhead; she is dying—ah, so miserably!’

“‘Show me where to find her,’ I said; ‘I, too, have been ill, but God will give me strength to reach this sister sorrow.’

“She led me into a small chamber in the top of the house, and there I found a young woman, about my own age, in the last stages of a rapid consumption. She had been very beautiful; but now the mere wreck of her loveliness filled me with painful sympathy.

“This woman told me her history, but it would only revive an old distress to repeat it. She was an American—the wife of an artist who had fallen in love with her beauty, taken her from her country-home directly abroad, and, burying himself in his studies, left her in the most dangerous society on earth to make her way as she pleased. It ended, as such neglect of the young and thoughtless sometimes will, in utter ruin. After a year or two she wandered off to Naples and lay dying there.

“This wretched woman was young and in distress, therefore worthy of compassion. She had been very sinful, and for this reason was in greater need of compassion. How much more terrible her suffering than mine, I thought. Blessed with a consciousness of innocence, what right have I to droop, while she is dying with the vulture of guilt gnawing at her heart? Pity for this poor soul reconciled me to life. I grew strong in supporting her weakness—hopeful, while showing her how beautiful eternity might be. She died, and we buried her in the _Campo Sante_. They asked for her name, and I gave them mine.

“From that day I took the name of Julia Ransom, left Naples, and went into one of those small inland towns that seem to have crept out of the middle ages, merely, to make a lovely landscape picturesque.

“In this town I remained a year, and then, for the first time since my unhappy marriage, I began to feel a strong desire to write, not the imperfect sketches that had been my best efforts hitherto, but something in which a soul grown strong in suffering might pour itself out with the power and force of experience. There arose also a necessity that I should make some effort for my own support. There was still a little fund in America for the child, but that would be exhausted in time, and I must think of providing more. Just at this period I received a letter from Mr. Frost. His health was failing, it said, and he had found another person to look after the interests of my little charge when he was gone. The good man spoke of death as if it had been some pleasant journey which he intended to take. It was the last letter I ever received from him.

“Well, I commenced the book. At first, when my efforts sprang entirely from the imagination, writing had been a passion with me; but now habits of thought and bitter experience were converting them into a power. By this time I understood the Italian language well. I found a resting-place in one of those pretty hamlets which lay in the hills, near the convent where my daughter lived. My heart so yearned for a look at her now and then that I disguised myself as a sister of charity, and, during the months that I stayed in the neighborhood, saw her at least every week. But this indulgence broke up my life with such feverish tenderness, and became so painful in its restraints, that I felt myself growing feeble and weak under it. One day I went to the convent, took the little one in my arms, kissed her with silent blessings, and went away, resolved to give her up rather than feed my soul on the husks of concealed affection. In my whole life I had never parted with her more quietly; but the aching heaviness of my heart has not passed away from that hour to this.

“I went to England and made double negotiations for publication of my book in that country and in my own. How successful it was in both nations, I need not say. But it was the work, the absorbing occupation that lifted me out of my own unhappy life, which I cared for most. If some little fame was the result I scarcely knew it, or desired that others should know it.

“At last I came back to America, a lonely woman, but not altogether unhappy; for out of my life came many sweet duties, and exertion brought its own reward. My father was dead—a stranger told me this, when I asked if he knew the old man. Daniel had lost the young wife he had married in our happier days, and my sister kept house for him in the old homestead. They had no need of me—I was dead to them and all the world—dead and buried in that blooming hill-side back of Naples.

“It was at this period that I became acquainted with you, my friend. Time and sorrow had changed me so much that I was safe from discovery, even in the city where I had formerly lived. I bought the little cottage, and settled down into the quiet life you know of. My sister’s child had become a bright, intelligent youth. I was his only friend, and he seemed to give back something like regard for the benefits I had conferred upon him. His life in college was marked with singular devotion to his studies, and a reckless expenditure of money which alarmed me; but his explanations, if not satisfactory, were always so plausible that, knowing his unhappy position, I had no heart to inquire too closely into the truth of his statements.

“But the quiet of my life was broken up suddenly and forever. Scarcely had I got Michael established in a mercantile house, and seen him honorably started in his career, when I was surprised by the news that my husband and daughter had arrived in America. My first impulse was to break up the little home, which had been my safe resting-place for so many years, and flee into foreign parts again; but a wild desire to know something of these beloved ones—to look on his face once more, and hear the voice of my child—was too urgent; at any risk, I determined to wait, for a strong conviction seized upon me that our separation would not prove forever. Perhaps, now that our father was gone, Hetty might, of her own free will, take the secret burden from my life.

“I waited, and the good God sent Gillian, our bright, glorious child, into my very arms. She loved me at first sight, and I—great heavens! it seemed as if this heart would break under the swell of its joy, when she lay for the first time on my bosom: all the hushed love of many years rose up and surrounded her with its richness. I was jealous of every look she cast on another. The very tones of her voice seemed too precious for any ear but mine. I was greedy of every word she spoke, of her very glances, as they fell through the window; it seemed as if nature itself were robbing me.

“She told me of her father—my husband, remember—how he had mourned and how he had suffered. I recognized it all, and the great love that had lain buried under my dreary life so long broke forth with a vividness that no will could resist. All that was strong or grand in my nature swelled up with it, leaving the paltry pride, which had perhaps separated us more than any thing else, like drift-wood hurled away by the torrent.

“You remember the ball which marked Gillian’s coming out; how I hesitated, evaded, relented, and at last appeared there. Woodworth, when I met my husband in the library of that house it was the first time in almost fifteen years. Is it a wonder that I fainted? Is it strange that I was beside myself that night—that I followed him into his private study, and finding him struck senseless there, held him for one moment against a heart that had never ceased to worship him?

“But I had seen my sister. At first it was with a vague hope of pleading with her, but she was so frail, so weak in every way that I gave the thought up in despair. So that one embrace was only a farewell. I could not live in the same city, nay, on the same continent with him and keep silence. The agony of that one night warned me of this, and once more I fled.”

Mrs. Ransom ceased speaking; there was nothing more to tell of which Woodworth was not already informed. She did not give her reasons for returning so unexpectedly, for, even then, tender forbearance for her sister’s child kept all expressions of blame from her lips. She wished to see right done, but not in vengeance.

“And you have suffered so much, my friend,” said Woodworth, filled with wondering sympathy; “so much, and even I never guessed it.”

“Why should you?” she said, smiling sadly. “Prayers and sorrow lie between the heart and its God.”

“But you seemed cheerful,” said Woodworth.

“And I was so. Why not? My life was full of blessings. God withheld nothing from me but human love.”

“True; but that is like withdrawing sunshine from the earth.”

She smiled radiantly in answering, “But I have the sunshine now; a few weeks and all the bloom of my life will come back. It is here now, for I know in my soul that he loves me yet.”

Sarah grew beautiful as she spoke; the fire-light flamed up and revealed the brooding joy in her eyes—deeper and holier joy than ever shone up from the soul of a young girl.

“Gillian, my child, loves you,” she said, folding two white hands over her knee and falling into a dreamy posture. “Such love is fresh and beautiful. It reminds me of apple-blossoms when they first give their perfume out. Some men fear that this bright dawn of the heart will fade away, leaving only the commonplace behind. But I tell you, Woodworth, that after-love, the fruit which swells out from the blossom, still keeping its shadow at the core, is worth a thousand worlds of this evanescent freshness. Love has its phases like all human passions; the sacred richness of its repose is enough for me.”

“And shall be enough for your friend, when the time comes; but I should not care to leap over the blossom season,” said Woodworth, coloring pleasantly in the fire-light.

“Now,” answered Sarah, rising out of her dreamy state, “let us talk of the future. What are your plans?”

“The first,” replied Woodworth, cheerfully, “is to find my lost lady-love, and ask that as little time as possible shall separate us from the parson’s blessing. The time of my probation is up, thank heaven!”

“I will go with you,” said Sarah, gently; “now that she is asleep down yonder, there is nothing to delay us.”

“It will be a hard journey, dear lady, and you are worn out with watching.”

“I am used to hard journeys,” she said; “and as for weariness, there will be no rest for me till I have seen them.”

“Then let us start in the morning.”

“I will be ready,” she answered. “Now, farewell, till then.”