“Ah, mother, let me try you. Suppose the price was your whole fortune. Would you give it?”
“I would give it all,” answered Mrs. Eastman, fervently. “I would give everything rather than go through life with the shame and agony of Lemuel’s sin and that poor man’s murder upon me.”
“But, mother, suppose Heaven asked of you a greater price than that. Suppose it asked, as the price of a poor man’s liberty, your daughter’s life, or the life of your son. Would you give it? Answer me yes,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “Tell me that yours is not a cheap devotion to the old New England honor—the old New England liberty—the old New England justice! Tell me that you are willing to offer up to Heaven the dearest and the proudest sacrifice a soul can offer, that I may love you with the love of love forevermore!”
To stand before that impassioned and magnetic face, to hear those burning and electric tones, and not be kindled by their enthusiasm, was not in human nature. The flame thrilled through the mother’s soul, and with a pale, proud countenance, and quivering nostrils, while a vague and awful consciousness of what had happened arose within her, she looked steadily into the flushed and exalted features of Muriel.
“I have not your spirit, Muriel,” she tremulously answered, “and such a sacrifice would be hard for me to make, but I would strive to make it—I would strive to be worthy of my daughter.”
“Mother of my heart!” cried Muriel, with passionate fervor. “Behold, the hour has come for you to strive with every mortal weakness. Lean on me now—let me fill you with my strength—let me dilate you with my joy. Rouse up your soul to fortitude—nerve it to bear as only a woman’s soul can bear—for Heaven has asked the great sacrifice of us all. Oh, my mother, Heaven has said to him we love—the price of the ransom is your own life—and with his life he has paid it.”
The mother looked at her with a pale, still countenance. She did not swoon, she did not shriek, she did not weep nor tremble. The strong sustaining spell of Muriel’s spirit was upon her; her clear magnetic eyes upheld her; and she breathed in the mighty ether of that electrifying sphere of pride and joy. Left to herself she might have dropped dead or mad; but interpenetrated with that effluent will, and moved and kindled by the grandeur of her daughter’s nobleness, she rose in courage like the courage of a spirit when it leaves the serene regions to dare the doom of dark avatars.
“I hear you,” she said, in a low, full, equal voice, sounding more like Muriel’s than her own. “I hear you, and I am filled with your life. You wish me to be calm and strong. I am calm and strong. I understand you perfectly. You tell me that he is dead.”
“Mother,” replied Muriel, with solemn fervor, “his earthly life is ended, but he lives forever. He died a hero’s death, and all who made earth noble with their living and their dying, rise up to welcome him.”