And, indeed, the pleasant countenance of the youth was well calculated to re-assure his friend.
They relapsed into silence as they approached the river. Sutherland was absorbed in mournful and bitter reverie, which Lauderdale forbore to break. They crossed the Pearl in perfect silence; Lincoln glancing from the beautiful semi-transparent river, with its surface softly flushed with rose and saffron clouds, to the gorgeous fields of cotton, with its myriads beyond myriads of golden white flowers. When they left the ferry-boat, and cantered up the gradual ascent of the road, and entered upon the domain of Silentshade, once more Mark put out his hand and seized that of his friend, saying, “Here at last is my home, where I may welcome any friend of mine for any length of time; and I do not so much invite you, as I entreat you, to come and stay with me as long as you can give me your company, if it be only, dear Lincoln, to prove that you forgive me the offence that has been offered to you.”
“Pray say no more about it, dear Mark; how are you responsible for an affront offered yourself as well as me? As for staying with you, I will do so with the greatest pleasure as long as I may.”
And once more Mark Sutherland fell into silence—into bitter and sorrowful meditation—into deep despondency. Since India’s haughty rejection of his hand, his life had grown very real to him. Before that, he had thought, spoken, and acted, as one under the influence of some inspiring dream. His anticipation and appreciation of the trials that awaited him, differed as much from the real experience of them as the imagining of some glorious martyrdom falls short of the suffering it.
Young enthusiast that he was, he had thought only of the excitement and glory of the heroism, and not of the fierce torture and maddening shame of the sacrifice. But now he felt his position in all its dreadful reality. And it was well that he should so feel it. It would test his sincerity, try his strength, prove his character. And now he rode on despairing, almost heart-broken. Yet even in this dark and clouded hour, one bright star of hope, and promise, and strength, shone on him—a mother’s love—a mother’s undying, unchanging love. It has been the theme of poets, of philosophers, and of novelists, since hearts first beat with affections, and tongues first gave them utterance. It is the chosen Scripture illustration to express even the divine love of God. The young man rode along, deeply musing on that mother’s love—deeply thirsting for it. He felt—man as he was—that it would be a sweet and grateful relief to sit by her side, to drop his proud, but weary head upon her shoulder, and for a little while to give vent to the flood of sorrow now stifled in his bosom—sure, that if others thought even such a transient yielding to grief unmanly, she, that tender and affectionate mother, never would think so. And so he mused upon that love—the only earthly love that never faileth—that neither misfortune can abate, nor crime alienate. And, unfortunate and suffering in the cause of conscience as he was, how confidently he trusted in that mother’s sympathy and support! Yea, though all other affection might fail him—though friends should forsake, and relatives abandon him, and even his bride discard him—she, his mother, would be true!
He would have staked his salvation upon this, as they turned into the avenue of limes leading up to the house, and saw Mrs. Sutherland standing, smiling, upon the piazzi. But, on seeing the young men approach, in one instant, the lady’s countenance changed.
She had had her lesson.
Without advancing one step to meet and welcome them, she allowed them, after dismounting from their horses, to walk quite up the steps, and to the very spot where she stood, and to bow and speak, before she relaxed one muscle of her countenance.
She replied to their greeting in the coldest tones, inviting them to enter the house.
For an instant, Mark and Lincoln raised their eyes to each other’s face, and their glances met. A pang of mortification and disappointment sped through the heart of Sutherland; and Lauderdale, apparently not the least surprised or disconcerted, took his resolution.