Archie's father had, at last, laid down both trowel and pipe, and was taking his long rest beside the dead wife. The boy had purchased a small lot in a secluded and romantic part of the cemetery, and there he had both parents placed, in one wide grave, with the box of treasures between them, and above them a large white cross with a simple inscription. The lot was fenced around with a hawthorn hedge, and here and there a rose bush grew luxuriantly. There was room for himself and for the old grandmother who was now terribly decrepit, so that she was unable to take any care of the house, and Patrick Marsh had consented to let his little shanty and come, with good Molly his wife, to look after the lad's comfort, for they had no child, and Archie was nearer to them than any living being. Good Molly was of rough and ungainly exterior, but within, the very impersonation of tenderness and love, and this happy and blessed temperament had gained for her so flattering an appellation wherever she was known. Little children would gather around her in the street and hold on by her apron or gown, fondling and caressing her hands, and even her feet, as if she were some good angel—and so indeed was she to many a lone and forsaken one, who had found care, and food, and shelter, beneath her lowly but hospitable roof. It wasn't strange then that, with such a heart, Good Molly should consent to leave the home that was endeared to her by a thousand associations in order to watch over the failing and imbecile old woman and her diseased and lonely grandson.
Neither she nor Patrick felt themselves competent to mingle in the youth's higher and holier sympathies; they were conscious that they were of altogether a different mold; but there were bodily wants that none knew better how to meet than the nice housewife, whose skill in such matters few could contest. The dainty bit was ever tempting, and the linen was pure and white, and the neat chamber inviting even to the most fastidious taste, so that there would have been nothing wanting to Archie's comfort or joy were it not for the void that but one could fill. "It was foolish to think of her!" that he so often repeated to himself, yet think of her and dream of her he did, and all the time grew thinner and thinner, and paler and paler, until he seemed some ghostly shadow moving about the grounds. Five years had passed since she came down the green slope and put her little hand in his to bid him a long good-by. It was the summer time, and he remembers that the old elm under which he sat was just in the fullness and glory of its foliage; the hour, too, is distinctly in his memory; the dreary and sad twilight, and the breeze's soft play over the waving grass, and the hum of the insects, and the murmur of the city's noise that came pleasantly from the distance, like the moving of far-off waters. Oh! these things can never die out of his remembrance. How can they! Doesn't he cherish them religiously, coming always at the vesper time to the same spot to live them over and over again?
Even through the dreary winters he but closes his eyes and the verdure is there, and the beauty.
No need of that to-night, however, for the chilly season has again passed away, and the old elm is rich in her emerald robes, and the breath of the soft winds is upon him, and the same murmur in his ear. There is only the small hand and the gentle words wanting to make it all a precious reality. Is it his fancy that at this moment brings them so palpably to him? Is the vision of a graceful figure, and a white dress, and a pure face beaming upon him with the lovely expression only a delusion of his excited mind! Or is it really her own voice that comes to him so earnestly. "Oh! speak, Archie, pray speak! don't you remember Kittie?" It was of no use to call upon him, the shock was too much for his delicate organization, and whiter than the spotless muslin was the brow that the maiden loved, as she supported the drooping head, and strove to recall the fainting breath.
His heart beat more painfully than ever as the warm life-blood flowed evenly again, for that one moment had told him that he loved, and the revelation was as death. To linger upon the earth, to see and hear her continually, and to press back the deep and springing emotions that were ever welling up toward her. How could he do it! it were worse than death itself! And yet he spoke calmly and naturally as she walked with him to the cottage, and quietly watched her as she talked with the old people; but the light in his heart went out as she passed over the threshold into the stilly night—and the struggle was a victorious one.
Kittie was pondering upon it all—the agitation, and the pallor, and the overwhelming joy, and a secret delight filled her soul as she sought again the tree. There was no wavering of purpose as the vow went forth from that same consecrated place to be true to the convictions that she now felt. How long a period had elapsed since she stood there before. She is no more forgetful of it than Archie, and she draws forth from her bosom a tress of raven hair, and looks upon it while it is bathed in the moonlight, wondering, meantime, how she had dared to cut it from his head as he leaned against this same tree so long, long ago. True, he did not know it, it was so slyly done; but nothing could tempt her to a like act again. Not that she is sorry for the deed—ah! no. This little talisman will ever be most precious unto her. But the brow seemed so hallowed now; there was a mystic light upon it, as though a beam from Heaven were shining directly there, and a superstitious awe crept over the heart of the young maiden as she remembered the cold dews that her hand had felt as she stroked back the clustering locks.
CHAPTER XII.
The beauty, and luxury, and lavish tenderness that had continually surrounded Willie during his cousin's absence, brought no corresponding loveliness, and richness, and gratitude within, and Kittie found it more difficult to bear with the querulous, fitful temper than before her long separation from him. Day after day he would require her to sit with him reading aloud some foolish and distasteful thing which was suited to his weak and uncultivated intellect; or she must walk or ride, as he pleased, giving up her own occupations and plans whenever they interfered with his amusement. Time and again the question would recur to her, "Why should I give myself up to the effort to do good, where it is so evident that I can do nothing?" and then her aunt's kindness in giving her mother and herself so welcome a home when they were deprived of their earthly supporter, and the wish to make some return for all the love bestowed upon her in her uncle's house, induced her to strive with renewed diligence to influence her cousin to a holy and consistent life. He had so far been won by her courteous example as to treat Archie with respect, and even with a degree of cordiality, whenever they met; but the low-born, yet noble youth, felt the difference between his patronizing regard and the ingenuous and free sympathy that the cousin manifested, and his dark eyes would flash with a suppressed and hidden fire that nothing could subdue like the gentle glance that so often sought his.
Was it only compassion for his terrible infirmity that tinged the maiden's cheek and gave fervor to her every tone, as she met him about the garden walks, or in the humble cottage? Was it only the loving and earnest nature, that could not help its warm and gushing impulses, that caused the tear to suffuse her eye at every wound occasioned his sensitive heart by the thoughtless Willie? Was it naught but a generous interest that led her every day to his humble home, with her books or drawings, to ask aid of her uncle's protégée? Or was he inflicting upon himself a needless suffering, besides quenching the brightness of that young spirit which he would fain die to save from sorrow? Could it be that by one spoken word his life and health might flow back upon him with new and refreshing vigor? The risk was too great. It might banish forever from his sight the only object that made that life endurable; and so it remained unsaid, preying upon the vitals and pressing him onward to the blessed haven of rest—rest from all doubts, rest from all infirmities and sufferings, rest from all painful labor, both physical and mental, glorious, perfect, enduring rest!