“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied Hansford, gratefully, “and I thank you, Mr. Bernard, for thus affording me an opportunity of taking a last farewell of the strongest tie which yet binds me to earth. I had thought till now,” he added, with emotion, “that I was fully prepared to meet my fate. Well, Virginia, the play is almost over, and the last dread scene, tragic though it be, cannot last long.”
“Oh, God!” cried the trembling girl, “help me—help me to bear this heavy blow.”
“Nay, speak not thus, my own Virginia,” he said. “Remember that my lot is but the common destiny of mankind, only hastened a few hours. The leaves, that the chill autumn breath has strewn upon the earth, will be supplied by others in the spring, which in their turn will sport for a season in the summer wind, and fade and die with another year. Thus one generation passes away, and another comes, like them to live, like them to die and be forgotten. We need not fear death, if we have discharged our duty.”
With such words of cold philosophy did Hansford strive to console the sad heart of Virginia.
“'Tis true, the death I die,” he added with a shudder, “is what men call disgraceful—but the heart need feel no fear which is sheltered by the Rock of Ages.”
“And yours is sheltered there, I know,” she said. “The change for you, though sudden and awful, must be happy; but for me! for me!—oh, God, my heart will break!”
“Virginia, Virginia,” said Hansford, tenderly, as he tried with his poor manacled hands to support her almost fainting form, “control yourself. Oh, do not add to my sorrows by seeing you suffer thus. You have still many duties to perform—to soothe the declining years of your old parents—to cheer with your warm heart the many friends who love you—and, may I add,” he continued, with a faltering voice, “that my poor, poor mother will need your consolation. She will soon be without a protector on earth, and this sad news, I fear, will well nigh break her heart. To you, and to the kind hands of her merciful Father in heaven, I commit the charge of my widowed mother. Oh, will you not grant the last request of your own Hansford?”
And Virginia promised, and well and faithfully did she redeem that promise. That widowed mother gained a daughter in the loss of her noble boy, and died blessing the pure-hearted girl, whose soothing affection had sweetened her bitter sorrows, and smoothed her pathway to the quiet grave.
“And now, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, “it is useless to prolong this sad interview. We have been enemies. Forgive me if I have ever done you wrong—the prayers of a dying man are for your happiness. Farewell, Virginia, remember me to your kind old father and mother; and look you,” he added, with a sigh, “give this lock of my hair to my poor mother, and tell her that her orphan boy, who died blessing her, requested that she would place it in her old Bible, where I know she will often see it, and remember me when I am gone forever. Once more, Virginia, fare well! Remember, dearest, that this brief life is but a segment of the great circle of existence. The larger segment is beyond the grave. Then live on bravely, as I know you will virtuously, and we will meet in Heaven.”
Without a word, for she dared not speak, Virginia received his last kiss upon her pale, cold forehead, and cherished it there as a seal of love, sacred as the sign of the Redeemer's cross, traced on the infant brow at the baptismal font.