“If it be so, poor wench!” said Basil. “But I have hope, mother; hope.”
“Of course, Basil, you will come to the ceremony?”
“And Bessy?”—inquired Basil. His mother made no answer; Basil calmly continued. “Nevertheless, should the wedding-cup slip from the lip—there are such slips, you know—Aggy shall find that her new sister has thought of her—even, I say, in the wilderness. I shall leave behind those who will watch you”—
“Watch?” cried Mrs. Jericho, impatiently.
“For a kind purpose,” said the son. “And you shall see what a house we’ll have for you. Oh! you’ll need it. What a garden! What freedom! What a new life of happiness and honour—the life of the husbandman, a life fed by the bounty of earth, and sweetened by the airs of heaven. Good-bye.”
“Oh, Basil; we shall meet before you—before”—the mother could say no more.
“Oh, yes; truly yes,” and Basil took his mother to his bosom; and the woman’s heart flowed in tears—and pride and vanity, and worldly thoughts were, for the moment, conquered. “Will you see Bessy?” asked Basil; his mother responded with a pressure of her arms. In a moment, Bessy—answering the call of Basil—stood, blushing in the room.
Mrs. Jericho felt rebuked, humbled, by the sweet, frank, innocence of the girl. “Bless you, Bessy,” she cried; and kissing her, with an effort smiled; then saying, “Basil, you will see me to the door,” hurried down stairs. In a minute, Mrs. Jericho was in her carriage. “Home!” cried Basil, and homewards the lady went. And the figure of Bessy still went with her; the good, happy face of the fair creature that had smiled so sweetly at the tyranny of fortune; that, in the confiding purity of her heart, seemed invulnerable to evil,—the face went with her; and the wife of the Man of Money for the moment blushed for her possessions; felt ashamed of her wealth.
And then she thought of Basil and his young bride in the wilderness; and the next thought sent the recollection of that word—was it scornfully uttered by Basil?—that word “Home” through her brain. Never before had the sound so jarred upon her heart. “Home!” With what sad, sullen thoughts, she now considered that magnificent dungeon; that gorgeous prison, her home. How its splendour came feverishly upon her soul! How little was there in that home that consecrated it from any temple where the creed was money, and the worshipper, the world.
“Home!” a sweet and terrible word. How often may it have made its way into the carriage, sickening youth and beauty with its sound—striking cold misery to the poor, aching heart; some sad, church-bargain, receipted by the priest. How often, the miserable creature, begging at the carriage-door, kneading the mud beneath his naked feet, with all his tattered wretchedness feels no such pang as that word “Home” inflicts upon the seeming felicity he prays to. “Home!” How merrily the hours dance onward! How the heart has forgotten, thrown down its daily load, letting itself be cheated into joy! Still the hours glide on, glowing as they pass, and sorrow is tricked into happiness. And it may be the dream lasts until the dreamer departs. And then the word “Home” is flung, like a snake, to the victim—the daily viper that daily stings.