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Page 17
With his face buried in his hands, heedless of the lapse of time, and of
anything save his own absorbing emotion, Arthur still sat in the
armchair, into which he had thrown himself, his thoughts dwelling, with
strange pertinacity, upon the past,--the past that seemed to mock him
now.
They expected very shortly to have returned home, and he had anticipated
so much pleasure in that return. He had never analyzed the source of
that pleasure, but now that it was removed, he saw it too clearly; it
was the hope, the expectation, of meeting with her. He recalled to mind
the hours he had passed with her,--happy hours, all too quickly flown;
her winning smile, the sweetly persuasive tones of her voice, her
earnest and thoughtful manner, all came back to haunt him with their
memory. Oh, how distinctly he remembered one of the last conversations
he had with her, when, in her own mellifluous tones, she had repeated
Young's exquisite lines,--
"Stricken friends
Are angels sent on errands full of love,--
For us they languish, and for us they die."
Never had he felt their beauty as now, for the storm of passion had in a
measure subsided, and the still small voice of conscience once more
asserted its power.
"Oh, Agnes, Agnes," he murmured, "you tarried on our earth as an angel
of light, and now you have but returned to your native sphere, and
rejoined your sister spirits, but could you see my rebellious heart, how
infinitely removed from the resignation and purity that can alone find
admission into the haven of bliss, how should I sink in your esteem, if,
indeed, surrounded by the spirits of the blessed, your thoughts ever
turn to so miserable an inhabitant of earth."
A book lay on the table beside him. He took it up mechanically, scarcely
knowing what he did. It was an elegant edition of Mrs. Hemans' poems,
and had been the gift of Agnes to his sister a few weeks previous to her
leaving home.
On the fly-leaf she had inscribed Ella's name, and the sight of her
hand-writing sent a fresh thrill of agony to his heart. But last
evening, on borrowing the book from his sister, he had contemplated it
with such delight; now, it was but the fatal reminder of "what had been,
but never more could be." With the restlessness of a weary heart, he
turned over page after page, until his glance was arrested by some lines
she had evidently marked. How bitterly appropriate they seemed now as he
read,--
"Go, to a voice such magic influence give
Thou canst not lose its melody and live;
And make an eye the load-star of thy soul;
And let a glance the springs of thought control.
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings; there repose thy trust
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread '=forever=,' and despair."
It is true these lines, evidently addressed to an unbeliever in our holy
Christianity, were not, in that respect, applicable to him, yet he felt
that the reproof came home to his own conscience; for earth had too much
engrossed his vision, and while from childhood he had been taught that
life and immortality are brought to light by the Gospel, in his
despairing grief he had almost lost sight of the blessed possibility of
being re-united to her, whom he now contemplated as a sinless spirit in
the regions of eternal bliss.
Far reaching as Eternity were the results of these hours of affliction,
and with higher and holier aims, and the determination to consecrate
life's remaining days, weeks, or years, to that service which is alone
worthy of being engaged in by immortal beings, Arthur Bernard returned
once more to the battle of life, with a heart crushed and bleeding, it
is true, but not destitute of Peace, that celestial visitant, or of
heavenly hope, pointing to a brighter and more enduring inheritance.
CHAPTER VIII.
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