While Mrs. Cartwright was thus, by a relation of her own trials, endeavoring to divert, in some measure, Ella's mind, and prevent her from dwelling too exclusively on this painful event, Arthur, having gained his chamber, was now pacing the floor with restless steps, his whole soul a prey to the most intense emotions of grief, such as he had never before experienced. At one moment he felt stupefied, at the suddenness of the blow; the next, aroused again to the consciousness of its terrible reality. At length a hope, that seemed to up-spring from the depth of his despair, shed a faint light over the chaotic darkness that reigned within. "The information may be exaggerated," was his mental solving, "for it is plain that the writer, in penning it, was actuated by no feelings of good-will, and there may yet exist a hope of Anges's escape." With this idea, he opened another epistle, which he had received, but not yet read. It was from an elderly gentleman, who had always held Agnes in the deepest esteem, and with a trembling hand he broke the seal. Alas for his futile hopes! Not at the close of the page, as in the one received by Ella, but at the very commencement of the letter, was the mournful intelligence communicated, and while the narrator deeply deplored the event, he intimated, at the same time, that not a doubt existed in his own mind, or in the minds of her friends, as to the certainty of her untimely fate.
Arthur laid the letter aside, and again commenced his restless pacing. Alas, he had once almost imagined himself a Christian, for had he not been sedulous in the discharge of every duty, and, like the young man referred to in Scripture, could have said, with reference to the moral law as far as outward observances are concerned, "All these have I kept from my youth up." But now, mitigating, soothing, extracting from grief, however mighty, some portion of its bitterness, where was the resignation of the Christian? Not, certainly, in that heart so full of bitterness, that was ready to contend with heaven for having reclaimed its own; its power, its goodness, its wisdom, were almost, unconsciously, arraigned, and finite man presumed to pass judgment on the acts of infinite benevolence, until, at length, shocked at his own rebellious feelings,—and startled, nay, terrified, at this the deepest insight he had ever obtained of the natural depravity of his heart, he sank into a chair, and in utter recklessness abandoned himself to the tide of grief which seemed waiting to overwhelm him.
Oh there are terrible moments in human experience, moments when even the Christian is so haunted by the demon of unbelief, when the dire enemy of God and man takes advantage of some unpropitious circumstance, some painful affliction, to taunt the soul, already almost crushed, and to inquire, with fiendish malignity, "Where is now thy God?" that if not wholly overcome, he, at least, escapes alone with fearful wounds from the trying conflict; how then can that one sustain the assault who is totally unprepared, and who knows but little of the source from whence alone help can come? Well, indeed, for frail humanity, that there is a tender, pitying Father, who "knoweth our frame, and remembereth we are dust," and oftentimes, when our need is sorest, sends, in his own good way, unexpected relief.
With his face buried in his hands, heedless of the lapse of time, and of anything save his own absorbing emotion, Arthur still sat in the armchair, into which he had thrown himself, his thoughts dwelling, with strange pertinacity, upon the past,—the past that seemed to mock him now.
They expected very shortly to have returned home, and he had anticipated so much pleasure in that return. He had never analyzed the source of that pleasure, but now that it was removed, he saw it too clearly; it was the hope, the expectation, of meeting with her. He recalled to mind the hours he had passed with her,—happy hours, all too quickly flown; her winning smile, the sweetly persuasive tones of her voice, her earnest and thoughtful manner, all came back to haunt him with their memory. Oh, how distinctly he remembered one of the last conversations he had with her, when, in her own mellifluous tones, she had repeated Young's exquisite lines,—
"Stricken friends
Are angels sent on errands full of love,—
For us they languish, and for us they die."
Never had he felt their beauty as now, for the storm of passion had in a measure subsided, and the still small voice of conscience once more asserted its power.
"Oh, Agnes, Agnes," he murmured, "you tarried on our earth as an angel of light, and now you have but returned to your native sphere, and rejoined your sister spirits, but could you see my rebellious heart, how infinitely removed from the resignation and purity that can alone find admission into the haven of bliss, how should I sink in your esteem, if, indeed, surrounded by the spirits of the blessed, your thoughts ever turn to so miserable an inhabitant of earth."
A book lay on the table beside him. He took it up mechanically, scarcely knowing what he did. It was an elegant edition of Mrs. Hemans' poems, and had been the gift of Agnes to his sister a few weeks previous to her leaving home.
On the fly-leaf she had inscribed Ella's name, and the sight of her hand-writing sent a fresh thrill of agony to his heart. But last evening, on borrowing the book from his sister, he had contemplated it with such delight; now, it was but the fatal reminder of "what had been, but never more could be." With the restlessness of a weary heart, he turned over page after page, until his glance was arrested by some lines she had evidently marked. How bitterly appropriate they seemed now as he read,—