"I know; and you have been a little headstrong, Gilbert, but only that you might provide for yourself. I don't treasure it against you, for only good has come of it, and I love you all the more. Now, Gilbert, let me say a word about other things, for I have but little strength, and may never be able to speak to you again. All my life, as you know, I have occupied myself with business. What else could I do? Had I married, as I might, and happily, it would have been different. Determining otherwise, and most unwisely, I set out to build up our fortune, and for your good, hoping to transmit our name, not as it is known in this distracted country, but as it was in another and more peaceful land. In this I have succeeded beyond all my hopes, but much of my success has been due to Moth. Wild Plum I redeemed, as I could under your father's deed, and you will treasure it, and keep this place too, I hope, in remembrance of me. Beneath these farms, and underlying all the many thousand acres I leave you, there lie boundless fields of coal, the worth of which no one dreams of now. For in a little while our young state will have filled with people, and with them will come factories, and the furnaces of these you will help to feed. These lands I leave to you, and other things for your present wants, so that you may spend all your life and still be rich; but do this in moderation, Gilbert. Others will come after you. Leave something for them. Do not be idle, but occupy yourself not less fully now that you will be rich. For idleness is like a foul distemper that destroys the mind and saps the character of men, leaving only shreds and patches not worth any one's respect. Remember always that the greatest of God's gifts is the opportunity to occupy our minds and bodies in the attainment of honorable ends. Thus busied, men never grow old, but remain buoyant and fresh to the very end."
"What am I, dear aunt, that you should have planned like this? Surely, men are but little children compared with you."
"No; the most foolish among them have been wiser than I, for their lives have had some ray of sunshine, while mine has not had one gleam to brighten it."
"Oh, aunt, Constance and I will make your life happy if our love will be enough, for we will love you as if you were our mother."
"It is too late, Gilbert," she answered, with a sad smile; "but I shall die happy in being reconciled to you and in thinking you will grow to love me when I am gone. Kiss me again, sweet one, and may the good Lord have you in His keeping, and forgive me all my sins."
"Oh, aunt! we will be more to you than you can think; and Constance will come, and you will love her and she will love you! Don't speak again of dying," I cried, my heart filled to overflowing.
At this her face brightened as with some ray of happiness, but she made no response save to pull me to her and kiss me, sobs filling her throat as she pressed me in her arms. Then, faint and gasping, she fell back on her pillow, and in a little while, as if comforted, fell into a sweet and restful sleep. Sorrowing over her sad life and on all she had told me, I sat beside her, her hand clasped in mine, not moving lest she should awake. This till the shadows of the night were gathering in the room, and then, she not stirring, I arose and leaned over her bed, and doing so gave a startled cry. For while I had sat thus unconscious, her spirit, so great and so unhappy, had taken its flight to the good Lord whose forgiveness she had asked with her last breath.
* * * * *
Thus this most unhappy lady, so capable of love, passed away with a smile on her sad face and a prayer upon her lips. I, following her wishes, lovingly and with tears placed her beside the other two, and spreading flowers over all their graves, knelt beside them and prayed that the lives and hearts of the dear ones so long separated might be thus reunited in heaven above.
CHAPTER LIII