Chapter 49

"My life, my health, my liberty, my all! How shall I welcome thee to this sad place-- How speak to thee the words of joy and transport? How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters, Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled And pinioned like a thief or murderer?" _The Mourning Bride._

How different from the soliloquy of the dark and treacherous Bernard, seeking in the sophistry and casuistry of philosophy to justify his selfishness, were the thoughts of his noble victim! Too brave to fear death, yet too truly great not to feel in all its solemnity the grave importance of the hour; with a soul formed for the enjoyment of this world, yet fully prepared to encounter the awful mysteries of another, the heart of Thomas Hansford beat calmly and healthfully, unappalled by the certainty that on the morrow it would beat no more. He was seated on a rude cot, in the room which was prepared for his brief confinement, reading his Bible. The proud man, who relying on his own strength had braved many dangers, and whose cheek had never blanched from fear of an earthly adversary, was not ashamed in this, his hour of great need, to seek consolation and support from Him who alone could conduct him through the dark valley of the shadow of death.

The passage which he read was one of the sublime strains of the rapt Isaiah, and never had the promise seemed sweeter and dearer to his soul than now, when he could so fully appropriate it to himself.

"Fear not for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by my name; thou art mine.

"When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

"For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy one of Israel, thy Saviour."

As he read and believed the blessed assurance contained in the sacred promise, he learned to feel that death was indeed but the threshold to a purer world. So absorbed was he in the contemplation of this sublime theme, that he did not hear the door open, and it was some time before he looked up and saw Alfred Bernard and Virginia Temple, who had quietly entered the room.

Virginia's resolution entirely gave way, and violently trembling from head to foot, her hands and brow as white and cold as marble, she well nigh sank under the sickening effect of her agony. For all this she did not weep. There are wounds which never indicate their existence by outward bleeding, and such are esteemed most dangerous. 'Tis thus with the spirit-wounds which despair inflicts upon its victim. Nature yields not to the soul the sad relief of tears, but falling in bitter drops they petrify and crush the sad heart, which they fail to relieve.

Hansford, too, was much moved, but with a greater control of his feelings he said, "And so, you have come to take a last farewell, Virginia. This is very, very kind."

"I regret," said Alfred Bernard, "that the only condition on which I gained admittance for Miss Temple was, that I should remain during the interview. Major Hansford will see the necessity of such a precaution, and will, I am sure, pardon an intrusion as painful to me as to himself."

The reader, who has been permitted to see the secret workings of that black heart, which was always veiled from the world, need not be told that no such precaution was proposed by the Governor. Bernard's object was more selfish; it was to prevent his victim from prejudicing the mind of Virginia towards him, by informing her of the prominent part that he had taken in Hansford's trial and conviction.

"Oh, certainly, sir," replied Hansford, gratefully, "and I thank you, Mr. Bernard, for thus affording me an opportunity of taking a last farewell of the strongest tie which yet binds me to earth. I had thought till now," he added, with emotion, "that I was fully prepared to meet my fate. Well, Virginia, the play is almost over, and the last dread scene, tragic though it be, cannot last long."

"Oh, God!" cried the trembling girl, "help me--help me to bear this heavy blow."

"Nay, speak not thus, my own Virginia," he said. "Remember that my lot is but the common destiny of mankind, only hastened a few hours. The leaves, that the chill autumn breath has strewn upon the earth, will be supplied by others in the spring, which in their turn will sport for a season in the summer wind, and fade and die with another year. Thus one generation passes away, and another comes, like them to live, like them to die and be forgotten. We need not fear death, if we have discharged our duty."

With such words of cold philosophy did Hansford strive to console the sad heart of Virginia.

"'Tis true, the death I die," he added with a shudder, "is what men call disgraceful--but the heart need feel no fear which is sheltered by the Rock of Ages."

"And yours is sheltered there, I know," she said. "The change for you, though sudden and awful, must be happy; but for me! for me!--oh, God, my heart will break!"

"Virginia, Virginia," said Hansford, tenderly, as he tried with his poor manacled hands to support her almost fainting form, "control yourself. Oh, do not add to my sorrows by seeing you suffer thus. You have still many duties to perform--to soothe the declining years of your old parents--to cheer with your warm heart the many friends who love you--and, may I add," he continued, with a faltering voice, "that my poor, poor mother will need your consolation. She will soon be without a protector on earth, and this sad news, I fear, will well nigh break her heart. To you, and to the kind hands of her merciful Father in heaven, I commit the charge of my widowed mother. Oh, will you not grant the last request of your own Hansford?"

And Virginia promised, and well and faithfully did she redeem that promise. That widowed mother gained a daughter in the loss of her noble boy, and died blessing the pure-hearted girl, whose soothing affection had sweetened her bitter sorrows, and smoothed her pathway to the quiet grave.

"And now, Mr. Bernard," said Hansford, "it is useless to prolong this sad interview. We have been enemies. Forgive me if I have ever done you wrong--the prayers of a dying man are for your happiness. Farewell, Virginia, remember me to your kind old father and mother; and look you," he added, with a sigh, "give this lock of my hair to my poor mother, and tell her that her orphan boy, who died blessing her, requested that she would place it in her old Bible, where I know she will often see it, and remember me when I am gone forever. Once more, Virginia, fare well! Remember, dearest, that this brief life is but a segment of the great circle of existence. The larger segment is beyond the grave. Then live on bravely, as I know you will virtuously, and we will meet in Heaven."

Without a word, for she dared not speak, Virginia received his last kiss upon her pale, cold forehead, and cherished it there as a seal of love, sacred as the sign of the Redeemer's cross, traced on the infant brow at the baptismal font.