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Page 25
The spirit of the jocund morn quite carried her away, and all
unthinkingly she bounded out into the room and, stood there with a smile
of sheer delight upon her face. She had forgotten all about her shame and
sorrow. For an instant they were as completely gone from her mind as if
they had never been, and for that instant nowhere did the sun's
far-reaching eye rest on a blither or more innocent face. Then memory
laid its icy finger on her heart and stilled its bounding pulse. The glad
smile went out, like a taper quenched in Acheron, and she fell prone upon
the floor, crying with hard, dry sobs, "O God! O God! O God!"
That day, and for many days afterward, she thought again and again of
that single happy instant ere memory reclaimed its victim. It was the
first for so long a time, and it was so very sweet, like a drop of water
to one in torment. What a heaven a life must be which had many such
moments! Was it possible that once, long ago, her life had been such an
one--that she could awake mornings and not be afraid of remembering? Had
there ever been a time when the ravens of shame and remorse had not
perched above her bed as she slept, waiting her waking to plunge their
beaks afresh into her heart? That instant of happiness which had been
given her, how full it had been of blithe thanks to God and sympathy with
the beautiful life of the world! Surely it showed that she was not bad,
that she could have such a moment. It showed her heart was pure; it was
only her memory that was foul. It was in vain that she swept and washed
all within, and was good, when all the while her memory, like a ditch
from a distant morass, emptied its vile stream of recollections into her
heart, poisoning all the issues of life.
Years before, in one of the periodical religious revivals at Newville,
she had passed through the usual girlish experience of conversion. Now,
indeed, was a time when the heavenly compensations to which religion
invites the thoughts of the sorrowful might surely have been a source of
dome relief. But a certain cruel clearness of vision, or so at least it
seemed to her, made all reflections on this theme but an aggravation of
her despair. Since the shadow had fallen on her life, with every day the
sense of shame and grief had grown more insupportable. In proportion as
her loathing of the sin had grown, her anguish on account of it had
increased. It was a poison-tree which her tears watered and caused to
shoot forth yet deeper roots, yet wider branches, overspreading her life
with ever denser, more noxious shadows. Since, then, on earth the
purification of repentance does but deepen the soul's anguish over the
past, how should it be otherwise in heaven, all through eternity? The
pure in heart that see God, thought the unhappy girl, must only be those
that have always been so, for such as become pure by repentance and tears
do but see their impurity plainer every day.
Her horror of such a heaven, where through eternity perfect purification
should keep her shame undying, taught her unbelief, and turned her for
comfort to that other deep instinct of humanity, which sees in death the
promise of eternal sleep, rest, and oblivion. In these days she thought
much of poor George Bayley, and his talk in the prayer-meeting the night
before he killed himself. By the mystic kinship that had declared itself
between their sorrowful destinies, she felt a sense of nearness to him
greater than her new love had given or ever could give her toward Henry.
She recalled how she had sat listening to George's talk that evening,
pitifully, indeed, but only half comprehending what he meant, with no
dim, foreboding warning that she was fated to reproduce his experience so
closely. Yes, reproduce it, perhaps, God only knew, even to the end. She
could not bear this always. She understood now--ah! how well--his longing
for the river of Lethe whose waters give forgetfulness. She often saw his
pale face in dreams, wearing the smile he wore as he lay in the coffin, a
smile as if he bad been washed in those waters he sighed for.
CHAPTER IX.
Henry had not referred to their marriage after the first interview. From
day to day, and week to week, he had put off doing so, hoping that she
might grow into a more serene condition of mind. But in this respect the
result had sadly failed to answer his expectation. He could not deny to
himself that, instead of becoming more cheerful, she was relapsing into a
more and more settled melancholy. From day to day he noted the change,
like that of a gradual petrifaction, which went on in her face. It was as
if before his eyes she were sinking into a fatal stupor, from which all
his efforts could not rouse her.
There were moments when he experienced the chilling premonition of a
disappointment, the possibility of which he still refused to actually
entertain. He owned to himself that it was a harder task than he had
thought to bring back to life one whose veins the frost of despair has
chilled. There were, perhaps, some things too hard even for his love. It
was doubly disheartening for him thus to lose confidence; not only on his
own account, but on hers. Not only had he to ask himself what would
become of his life in the event of failure, but what would become of
hers? One day overcome by this sort of discouragement, feeling that he
was not equal to the case, that matters were growing worse instead of
better, and that he needed help from some source, he asked Madeline if he
had not better write to her mother to come to Boston, so that they two
could keep house together.
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