The whole expression of her countenance had changed, and the passionate defiance of other days had given place to a sad, patient hopelessness, touching indeed, when seen on her proud features. Slowly she threw her bobbins, and a fragment of “Infelice” seemed to drift across her trembling lips, that showed some lines of bitterness in their time-chiselling.
As Dr. Grey watched her, tears which he could not restrain trickled down his face, and he was starting forward, when she said, as if communing with her own desolate soul,—
“I wonder if I am growing superstitious. Last night I dreamed incessantly of Jessie and home, and to-day I cannot help thinking that something has happened there. Home! When people no longer have a home, how hard it is to forget that blessed home which sheltered them in the early years. Homeless! that is the dreariest word that human misery ever conjectured or human language clothed. Never mind, Salome Owen, when God snatched your voice from you, He became responsible; and your claims are like the ravens and sparrows, and He must provide. After all, it matters little where 454 we are housed here in the clay, and Hobbs was astute when he selected for the epitaph on his tombstone, ‘This is the true philosopher’s stone.’ Home! Ah, if I sadly missed my heart’s home, here in the flesh, I shall surely find it up yonder in the blessed land of blue.”
A tear glided down her cheek, glistened an instant on her chin, and fell on her pattern. She brushed it away, and smiled sorrowfully,—
“It is ill-omened to sprinkle bridal lace with tears. Some day this fine web will droop around a bride’s white shoulders and after a time it may serve to deck the cold limbs of some dead child. If I could only have my shroud now, I would not make lace a desideratum; serge or sackcloth would be welcome. Patience,—
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... ‘What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints? At least it may be said, Because the way is short, I thank thee, God!’” |
She partially rose in her chair, and took from the table a volume of poems. After some search, she found the desired passage, and, rocking herself to and fro, she read it aloud in a low, measured tone,—
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“O dreary life! we cry, ‘O dreary life!’ And still the generations of the birds Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds Serenely live, while we are keeping strife With heaven’s true purpose in us, as a knife Against which we may struggle! Ocean girds Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards Unweary sweep,—hills watch unworn; and rife Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees, To show above the unwasted stars that pass In their old glory. ‘O thou God of old, Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these! But even so much patience, as a blade of grass Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.’” |
The book slipped from her fingers and fell upon the floor, and with a sob the girl bowed her head in her hands.