Her eye still beams unwonted fires, With a woman's love and a saint's desires; And her last, fond, lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to heaven,--- As if she would bear that love away, To a purer world and a brighter day. Percival
During several weeks Mr. Johnson continued almost
constantly at Shawmut and Tri-Mountain, full
of zeal and perseverance in his new enterprise. Lady
Arabella in the mean time remained at Salem, and entered
with enthusiasm into all the plans of her honored
husband. She never spoke of the reverse in her situation, and scarcely seemed to think of it. Her character was indeed all that her countenance indicated. The expression of her eyes was gentle, but her high forehead, aquiline nose, and the peculiar construction of her mouth, all spoke intellect and fortitude, rather than tenderness. Firmness of purpose had been her leading trait from childhood; and now she tasked it to the utmost. But it was soon evident that the soul, in the consciousness of its strength, had too heavily taxed its frail, earth-born companion. The decline of each day witnessed a bright, shadowy spot upon her cheek, too delicate to be placed there by the pencil of health---her lips grew pale---and her eyes had lost all their lustre, save a transient beam of tenderness when she welcomed the return of her beloved partner. These changes could not escape the watchful eye of affection. The important business in which Mr. Johnson was engaged, rendered his frequent presence at Shawmut absolutely necessary; but notwithstanding the solitary and wearisome distance between them, evening seldom returned without seeing him by the side of Lady Arabella. Mrs. Conant too was fast drooping, and there seemed but a hair's breadth between her and the grave. It was interesting to observe the contrast between the two invalids. One, always weak and gentle, bended to the blast, and seemed to ask support from every thing around her. The other, struggling against decay, seemed rather to give assistance, than to require it. Their husbands watched over them, with the tender solicitude of a mother over her sickening infant. Mr. Conant, stern as he was, felt that a sigh or groan from the woman whom he had so long and sincerely loved, had power to stir up those deep recesses of feeling, which had for years been sealed within his soul; and Mary's heart was ready to burst with keen and protracted anguish, when she saw death standing with suspended dart, taking slow, but certain aim, at two endeared victims. But medicine, anxiety, and kindness, were alike unavailing; and soon they both retired to the same apartment, and laid themselves down on the beds from which they were never more to rise. Their feeble hold upon life daily grew more precarious, till at length nothing could tempt their anxious husbands from the pillow. Neither of them had spoken much for several days, when on the 24th of August the faint voice of Mrs. Conant was heard, as she whispered,
"Roger---My dear Roger."
In a moment he was at her side.
"What would you say, Mary?" asked he.
"There are many things I would have spoken," she
replied; "but I fear I have not strength wherewith to
utter them. If Brown comes back, you must remember
our own thwarted love, and deal kindly with Mary. She hath been a good child; and verily the God who had mercy on our unconverted souls, will not forsake her. Will you promise?"
"I will," answered the old man, in an agitated
voice. "Verily, my dear wife, your dying request
shall be obeyed."
"I would fain turn to the light," said she, "for I
feel that my departure draweth nigh."
Mary and her father gently raised her, and turned
her toward the little window. She looked on her
husband, with the celestial smile of a dying saint, as
she said,
"I die happy in the Lord Jesus. Sometimes I
would fain tarry longer for your sake; but the Lord's
will be done."
The agonized man pressed back the crowding tears, as he said,
"If in the roughness of my nature, I have sometimes
spoken too harshly; say that you forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive," she replied. "To me
you have been uniformly kind."
She reached out her hand to Mary---"For my
sake," added she, "be as dutiful to your good father
as you have been to me."
"I will---I will," answered Mary, as she, sobbing, hid her face in the bedclothes.