“My child—there is room enough in the world, room enough in our hearts, and room enough in Heaven, for you and Helen too.”
She spoke with solemnity, and she continued to speak soothingly and persuasively till the eyes of the invalid were closed in slumber, and then her thoughts rose in silent prayer for that sin-sick and life-weary soul.
Mittie never alluded to Clinton in her conversation with her mother. There was only one being to whom she now felt willing to breathe his name, and that was Arthur Hazleton. The first time she was alone with him, she asked the question that had long been hovering on her lips. She was sitting in an easy chair, supported by pillows, her head resting on her wasted hand. The reflection of the crimson curtains gave a glow to the chill whiteness of her face, and softened the gloom of her sable eyes. She looked earnestly at Arthur, who knew all that she wished to ask. The color mounted to his cheek. He could not frame a falsehood, and he feared to reveal the truth.
“Are there any tidings of him?” said she; “is he safe—or has his flight been discovered? But,” continued she in a lower voice, “you need not speak. Your looks reveal the whole. He is again imprisoned.”
Arthur bowed his head, glad to be spared the painful task of asserting the fact.
“And there is no hope of pardon or acquittal?” she asked.
“None. He must meet his doom. And, Mittie, sad as it is—it is just. Your own sense of rectitude and justice will in time sanction the decree. You may, you must pity him—but love, unsupported by esteem, must expire. You are mourning now over a bright illusion—a fallen idol—a deserted temple; but believe me, your mourning will change to joy. The illusion is dispelled, that truth may shine forth in all its splendor; the idol thrown down that the living God may be enthroned upon the altar; the temple deserted that it may be filled with the glory of the Lord.”
“You are right, Arthur, in one thing—would to God you were in all. It is not love I now feel, but despair. It is dreadful to look forward to a cold, unloving existence. I shudder to think how young I am, and how long I may have yet to live.”
“Yours is the natural language of disappointed youth. You have passed through a fiery ordeal. The sore and quivering heart shrinks from the contact even of sympathy. You fear the application of even Gilead’s balm. You are weak and languid, and I will not weary you with discussion; but spring will soon be here; genial, rejoicing spring. You will revive with its flowers, and your spirit warble with its singing birds. Then we will walk abroad in the hush of twilight—and if you will promise to listen, I will preach you a daily sermon, with nature for my text and inspiration too.”
“Ah! such sermons should be breathed to Helen only. She can understand and profit by them.”