"You have chosen one far more worthy of you than I could ever have been;—you will be very happy together. I hope to meet her some day, and love her, as all must love the beautiful and good. There is a consolation those friends have at parting, whose home is not here;—that, although we walk in different pathways on earth, they all lead to our abiding-place—Heaven." With an uncontrollable impulse, he drew her to him, and pressed his lips to her brow! He was gone! and the poor human heart bled from the slow torture to which it had been put. He had not dreamed of it,—had not suspected, when her steady, sweet tones told him of their separate pathways, that her soul was reaching, in intense yearnings, towards the lightsome way, where flowers sprang beneath his steps, and shuddering at the tomb-like chill of that which echoed her lonely foot-fall. He was gone! and the weeping eyes which sought Heaven, showed from whence she had derived the supernatural strength which had borne her through the trying interview;—and with the cry of unspeakable sorrow that succeeded his departure, arose a petition for larger supplies. It was granted. She wept still; but not in wretchedness. Solemn, pure resolutions were growing up beneath the waves of grief. The destruction of this hope—-the dearest in a woman's heart, was the fall of a proud plant,—the garden's pride—in its matured beauty. Buds and blooms wilt and perish upon the stalk, but from the laden seed-vessels are showered far and wide germs that shall rejoice many hearts with the sweetness and loveliness their parent garnered for one.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
It was so cold and damp in the morning, that Rachel, in virtue of her nursely prerogatives, forbade her mistress' rising before breakfast. Ida was not averse to keeping her room. She wished to achieve another victory over herself before meeting Josephine. A suspicion of her agency in Mr. Lacy's deception ripened, upon reflection, into a certainty, her love of justice prompted her to banish. But a hundred incidents occurred to her memory. Especially, she recollected that Josephine had accosted him, directly after she had taken Lynn's arm in the Fair-room, that she was still with him at the close of the evening, and that he had looked sorrowfully—reproachfully at her. She had no just conception of the girl's total destitution of principle, nor of her envy of herself; but she knew her to be weak, vain and spiteful; and against her will, she had to credit a conclusion, she judged uncharitable. She did not desire to ascertain its truth; it could make no difference at this late date. Another perplexity assailed her;—should she tell Josephine of the visit she had had? Should she hear of it from some other source, or by a direct inquiry of herself, whether she had spent the evening alone—what conjectures might not be formed as to the motive of her silence? She was deliberating thus, when the door flew back, and Josephine walked in. Ida, nervously excitable, started from her pillow; and clasped her hands in speechless alarm at the suddenness and disorder of her appearance. She was frightfully pallid, and her eyes were inflamed with weeping and rage.
Locking the door, she advanced to the foot of the bed, and grasped the post tightly, as if to brace herself for some desperate act. Ida could not stir, and the two regarded each other for a moment without a word. Josephine was torn by some fearful conflict: Ida had never seen her eyes dimmed by a tear; and when the struggle for language ended in a tempestuous burst of weeping, the thought flashed over her, that she was bereft of reason.
"Josephine! what has happened?" she could scarcely utter.
Josephine dashed off the thick-coming drops.
"Happened! yes! it will not matter to you, who can leave this abominable place in two years—or to-morrow, if you choose to have your own way. I am to stay, and be pushed about, and lectured and ruled by a hideous vixen! I could kill her, and him too!"