It was a calm Sabbath in the Indian Summer, and her chair was wheeled to the door. The "summer's late, repentant smile" shone fondly upon the landscape; the russet fields, the dismantled forests, the swift-rolling river.
She had seen it look just so, often; when the breeze played among the child's curls, and lent a quicker bound to a light heart—but faded in body—prematurely old in spirit—she saw no beauty in earth—had no treasure in heaven. Her Bible was upon her knees; she turned the pages indolently, and was saying, for the hundredth time, "No hope!" when a passage appeared to start up from the page. Could it have been there while she sought it carefully and with tears? "The Lord hath called thee as a woman, forsaken and grieved in spirit; and as a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith my God. For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee; in a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer. * * * * Oh! thou afflicted, tossed with tempests, and not comforted! behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires!"
As Will passed under the window on his way to Church, he was arrested by an unusual sound. No one was visible, but his heart and eyes ran over, as he recognised the voice that sang softly—
"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, oh! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head
With the shadow of Thy wing."
[CHAPTER XXI.]
The trembling which mingled with her transport, was so foreign to Ida's ardent temperament, that she doubted sometimes, if she had indeed found peace. But as her filial love and trust strengthened with time, she rejoiced with more hope. Much of the old leaven was left; her imperious temper still chafed at restraint, and she was disheartened at the discovery, that the loveliest of the "Blessed Three" graces was most difficult to practise. She leaned upon a Saviour's arm, and was willing to walk in the ways of His appointment, but the weak heart pleaded that He would not send her back into the world. Sweet Sunnybank, rich in associations;—with its peaceful duties and holy enjoyments, must be more favorable to the advancement of her new life;—she hoped against hope, that she might be permitted to remain. A letter from her guardian settled the point. With laconic terseness, he declared the thing "impossible. By her father's will, the estate was hers, when she was of age; until then, no preparatory step could be taken." Her scheme had been to invite a sister of Mrs. Grant, an excellent woman, now dependent upon her brother-in-law, to reside with her, in the capacity of housekeeper and companion; and leaving the control of her finances in Mr. Read's hands, to devote herself to the improvement of her servants and poor neighbors. It was a praiseworthy enterprise, and it cost her a sharp pang to resign it, and prepare for the return, her guardian pressed, "as desirable and proper." Her trunks were packed; and she had come in from a tour of the negro cabins, and a visit to her mother's grave, to spend the last twilight in the room in which she was born—in which her mother had died. The November blast howled in the chimney;—here it was the music of early days;—in Richmond, it would be so dreary!
She was not gloomy, although the firelight glistened upon cheeks wet with tears;—she was not going away, as she had come—alone; still she was sad at quitting her retreat, and in the prospect of the temptations awaiting her. There would be trials, too—trials of faith and patience and charity—and trials of feeling—what if she should be found wanting! But a whisper tranquilised her—"Fear not—I am with thee!" Mrs. Grant opened the door. She held a lamp whose rays blinded Ida's tender eyes.