Chapter 12

"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 associations 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 pronounce 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 passion, 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 passion at once so absorbing and constant, he might well have adopted, as embodying his own experience, the language of the poet:--

"It was life's whole emotion, a storm in its might, 'Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night; It swept down life's flowers, the fragile and fair, The heart had no powers from passion to spare."

It is time, from her loss, he had learned lessons of purest wisdom; he had sought and found the grace which he so truly exemplified in life and conduct; nor had the oil and joy of heavenly consolation been denied him, in the period of his sorest need; and though he could not, he dared not, dwell on the billows that swept above that once beautiful form, yet he delighted, in fancy, to visit those regions of bliss, now, as he deemed, her habitation, and to conjecture what the occupation, and what the enjoyment of its thrice-blessed inhabitants:--

But, "Earth's children cling to earth; the frail companion, the body, weighs down the soul, and draws it back from the contemplation of high and holy realities;" and thus there were seasons in Arthur Bernard's experience, when his very heart seemed to die within him, exhausted by its vain yearnings for her who, like an angel of light, had shone upon his path, and then suddenly disappeared; and as he looked forward into the probable future, and beheld life stretching out before him, monotonous and solitary, what wonder that Courage sometimes faltered, and Faith drooped, and Hope almost ceased to cheer the stricken pilgrim.

And such a moment of anguish he experienced now, as he sat in silence, with bowed-down head, while "thought went back to the shadowy past." Mr. Denham's words had thrilled his soul; had presented Agnes's image to him so vividly, that he could scarcely refrain from giving expression to his anguish in bitter groans; and this was the most trying remembrance, "it might have been" otherwise, had he, to whose care she had been solemnly committed by dying parents, faithfully fulfilled his trust, and instead of frowning on her, had cheered and encouraged her in the path of duty.

But there was one who suffered more than Arthur,--he who now lay listless on his couch, burdened with a heavy weight of anguish and remorse. Ah, it was this that deepened the sting of sorrow, that heightened with its bitterness every remembrance that "he alone the deed had done," and that but for his obstinacy and worldliness, she might even now be standing beside him, bathing his burning brow with gentle hands, and in her own sweet tones be imparting all needful consolation.

But Mr. Denham could bear these thoughts no longer, and hastily rousing himself, he addressed Arthur.

"It is growing late. Will you be so kind as turn on the gas a little brighter, for it seems to burn but dimly. I am sure," he added, in the querulous tones of an invalid, "it is time Mrs. Denham had returned. She took advantage of your coming to remain with me to visit a sick neighbor, but she must be very ill, indeed, to cause her to remain so long."

"She will be here very shortly, I dare say," was Arthur's reply, as, in compliance with the old man's request, he closed the curtains on the scene without, and caused the magnificent gaseliers to emit a more dazzling light,--"and in the meanwhile, if you have no objection, I shall be happy to read to you."

The invalid signified his willingness, and Arthur, sitting down by him, opened the richly-gilt Bible that lay on the marble stand near at hand, but ere he could commence, there was the rattling of wheels up the carriage-road. The vehicle stopped at the hall-door, and the bell was loudly rung.

The old man listened for a moment, and then, turning to Arthur, said, "I cannot see any person to-night. Will you be kind enough to inform the servant, that Mrs. Denham is out, and that I feel too much indisposed to receive any visitors,--though it is a singular hour for visitors, I must confess."

Arthur, as he opened the drawing-room door, heard a strange confusion in the hall below, and quickly closing it on the invalid, stepped out to convey Mr. Denham's orders, and to ascertain the cause of this unusual disturbance.

As he descended the staircase, he was met by the servant, whose honest face was lit up with a strange expression of wonder, joy, and satisfaction.

"Anything amiss?" inquired Arthur, observing the perturbation of the man.

"Oh, no, Sir, but how glad I am that you are here, for I am afraid the news will be too much for Master, and the young lady told me to break it to him gently."

"What news, what young lady, what do you mean, John?" inquired Mr. Bernard, in a tone of bewilderment. "I do not understand to what you allude."

"Beg pardon, Sir, for not telling you before, but it has been so sudden, it quite overpowered me, to think our dear young lady, whom we thought long since buried in the sea"--

The man stopped abruptly, and turned his head, evidently too much affected to go on.

"For pity's sake, speak, John, and put an end to this suspense; what about her?"

"Oh, Sir, nothing, Sir; I mean nothing at all, to alarm you, Sir; she has come back again, Sir; she was not drowned, after all, and she is now waiting in the library. She would have come right up, but I told her how ill Master had been, and then she stopped, for she was afraid the shock might be too much for him."

Arthur heard not the conclusion of the sentence.

"She is not drowned,--she has come back again,"--was all he could think of; and with eager steps, that yet seemed all too slow for his impatient spirit, he hastened to greet the long-mourned wanderer.

He paused a moment at the door of the library, to calm the tumult of his soul, and then slowly opening it, entered the room.

Agnes,--for it was indeed her own dear self,--had thrown off her cloak and hood, and sank back on a sofa, almost overcome with emotion, at finding herself once more at home,--and, perhaps, a little troubled to learn what reception she was likely to expect, from those who had parted with her so coldly.

She started up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Miss Wiltshire, this is, indeed, one of the happiest moments of my life," said Arthur, as clasping her hand, he raised it, involuntarily, to his lips, and with a voice, tremulous with emotion, continued:

"We have mourned you as one long since departed, but a gracious Providence has surely miraculously restored you again to your home, and your deeply sorrowing friends."

"Mine has, indeed, been a miraculous preservation, and one which demands the most grateful acknowledgment of my heart."

"I trust to have the pleasure of listening to its details, by and bye, and in joining with you in praising Him, who has so graciously given you back to us all. But I must not forget that you are, I am sure, very anxious to see your uncle."

"I am, indeed," was the reply. "Is he dangerously ill?" she earnestly inquired. "The man told me, he believed my aunt was out, but would go and ascertain."

"Mrs. Denham went out two hours ago, to visit a sick neighbor, and has not yet returned. Your uncle has, indeed, been very ill, and is still quite an invalid; but it has all originated in sorrow for your loss, and remorse at having been the chief instrument in sending you away. You will find him wonderfully changed," added Arthur, with kind consideration; for, fully aware of the circumstances under which she had left home, he knew she must feel anxiety respecting the terms on which, it was probable, she would be permitted to remain with her relatives.

"It was only this evening, he was lamenting his loss, and declaiming, in bitterest terms, against his former conduct, declaring, that, unless the sea restored his darling to him, his gray hairs would go down with sorrow to the grave."

Agnes wept tears of joy at this intelligence, but recovering herself, and recollecting Mr. Clifford, who had accompanied her from the vessel, and who, seated at the farthest end of the apartment, and partly in the shade, had, on that account, escaped Arthur's glance, she said,

"I have been very remiss, indeed, Mr. Clifford."

Arthur started, as she pronounced the name, and turning round, for the first time beheld the stranger.

"But you will excuse me, I am sure; for this return home, and the meeting with an old friend, has quite bewildered me. Allow me, Mr. Bernard to introduce to you my companion on the voyage, and one who like myself, has known the privations of exile, though for a much longer period than I."

Mr. Clifford advanced to Arthur, and the young men shook hands heartily.

"There needed no apology, Miss Wiltshire," said Ernest; "for your emotion, at returning home again, is only natural. It has afforded me, I assure you, the purest pleasure to witness it; a foretaste of what I trust myself to experience, when I embrace my mother again; if, indeed, she be yet in the land of the living."

"And now," said Arthur, "you will excuse me, while I go and prepare Mr. Denham for this interview with his long-lost niece, for it would not be prudent," he said, turning to Agnes, "for you suddenly to surprise him. I am afraid it would be too much for him in his present weak state."

Agnes thankfully acquiesced, and awaited with as much patience as she could command, the return of Arthur.

He was back again in a few moments.

"Your uncle is waiting to see you, and is almost delirious with joy. Mr. Clifford will excuse me while I conduct you to the apartment, and then I think my presence can be dispensed with."

The servants had flocked to the hall to see their dear young mistress again, and to find if it were indeed, as John had declared, her very self. It was with some difficulty that Agnes made her way through them, but shaking each warmly by the hand, and with many kind inquiries, she passed on, requesting, however, the cook to prepare some refreshments for the gentleman in the library.

Arthur, as he threw open the drawing-room door, observed that Mr. Denham had raised himself on the couch, and was gazing eagerly in that direction. Agnes instantly sprang forward into her uncle's outstretched arms, the old man murmuring with a voice weak with emotion, "My darling here,--you come back to your old uncle once more."

With instinctive delicacy Mr. Bernard softly closed the door, and retired, feeling that the scene had become too sacred for a stranger's eye.