It was this fallacy more than anything else that had hardened the heart of Cora, and made her justify herself in her own indifference towards spiritual things. She would draw down all to the same low level as herself, and thus hope to escape condemnation in a crowd. Cora’s chilling disbelief in the practical influence of faith had been shaken when she had first been admitted into the home of Isa Gritton while suffering from an infectious complaint. The ice which the world had encrusted round her heart had given some signs of melting. Then the idea that the Grittons were, after all, only acting from self-interest, had almost restored her frigid scepticism; she would not recognize the reality and the power of that faith which worketh by love. The sudden and strange disappearance of Gaspar had confirmed Cora in her impressions. “He flies me because he fears me,” was the reflection of the proud woman; and the insolence of her spirit had broken out even in the presence of the anxious sister. “Perhaps Miss Gritton has an idea not only whither, but for what cause, her brother had so suddenly vanished from this neighbourhood,” had been Cora’s sneering remark.
And yet, with all her bitterness and worldliness of spirit, Cora was capable of more generous feeling. She was a woman, and, like a woman, could cherish disinterested affection. Cora keenly felt her own isolation in life, that isolation which she feared that her personal disfigurement would now render perpetual. She had cut herself off from the proffered affection of Arthur and Lina; she had quarrelled with Lionel’s wife; she had many acquaintances, but was painfully aware that she had never made one true friend. Cora, especially during her illness, had often yearned for the love of a gentle, sympathizing heart, and something of gratitude, something of admiration, had drawn her towards Isa Gritton.
“How ill Miss Gritton looks to-night; I fear that she is sickening for the fever,” Mrs. Holdich had observed, on Isa’s quitting the room to go and search for papers in the study, at the time when, as the reader knows, Lottie was exploring the vault.
The observation had inflicted a sharp pang on Cora; she was startled on realizing the possibility that Isa’s life might indeed be given for her own, and a contrast would suggest itself between the comparative value of those lives. Isa, as Cora knew from Rebekah Holdich, was the light of her brother’s home, the gentle benefactress of the poor, and, as Cora was at that very time experiencing, a generous friend to those who needed her aid. In her, more than in any one else, Cora had caught a glimpse of the beauty of holiness; in her, more than in any one else, Cora had been almost forced to recognize the power of faith; and at that moment the proud, cold woman felt that there was one being on earth whom she could love, one whom she could not endure to see fall a sacrifice to her generous kindness to herself.
Cora’s bitter but salutary reflections were interrupted by the noise and excitement below, which followed the discovery of Gaspar Gritton in the vault. The loud call of Hannah for assistance was distinctly heard in the upper rooms occupied by Miss Madden; and Cora sent down Mrs. Holdich in haste to ascertain the cause of such an unusual disturbance. Rebekah did not return for a considerable time, and Cora grew so impatient that she could hardly restrain herself from hurrying downstairs. Mrs. Holdich came at last with the information that Mr. Gritton had been found in an insensible state in a vault, that he had been removed to his own apartment, and that his sister was carefully tending him there. This was all which Cora could learn from Rebekah, and it did not satisfy her thirst for information; she determined not to retire to rest until she had seen Isa Gritton. To beguile the time, Cora went up to Isa’s little bookcase, hoping to find there some light reading to amuse herself with. One volume, from the elegance of its binding, attracted Miss Madden’s attention, and she drew it forth from its place. It contained no work of fiction, as Cora had hoped and expected, but a selection of hymns. At another time Cora would have replaced the book, with perhaps an expression of scorn; but she was in a softened mood on that night, and her eye was attracted by the marking and double-marking on the margin of many of the pages. Chiefly from curiosity, but possibly from a better motive, Miss Madden carried the book to the place where she usually sat on her soft-cushioned chair, seated herself, and began to read in a desultory way.
One of the hymns which had been most strongly marked by Isa was the well-known one commencing with the line,—
“And dost thou say, Ask what thou wilt?”
This hymn was an especial favourite with Isa, who knew it by heart; but the proud, selfish woman who now perused it, in the stillness of night and the seclusion of a sick-room, seemed to be introduced into a new world of sensation as she read the lines, which express a Christian’s most fervent desire:
“More of Thy presence, Lord, impart,
More of Thine image let me bear;