Her strange composure awed the violent grief of the others into silence, and they followed her mechanically as she led the way to the piazza; involuntarily they all took the positions of the previous evening, and, with Bessie standing alone in the centre, they waited for their dead.

The young men bore their burden up the walk slowly and solemnly, and behind followed a train of sorrowing friends, two and two, thus rendering respect to the youth who had so suddenly been taken from them in all the flush and vigor of early manhood. On came the sad procession, and when the bearers reached the piazza, the friends fell back and stood with uncovered heads, as up the steps, and under the faded triumphal arch, Hugh Warrington came home for the last time to the old stone house.

At midnight Aunt Faith went softly into the parlor; a faint light shone from the chandelier upon the still figure beneath, and Bessie with her face hidden in her hands, sat by its side. She did not move as Aunt Faith came to her; she did not answer when Aunt Faith spoke to her; she seemed almost as cold and rigid as the dead.

"Bessie dear, I have something to show you," said Aunt Faith, in a low tone; "I have a letter to you from Hugh."

Bessie started and looked up; her face was pinched and colorless, and her dark eyes wild and despairing.

"I have a letter to you, dear, from Hugh," repeated Aunt Faith; "he wrote it on board the floating deck just before he died."

"Give it to me," said Bessie hoa.r.s.ely, holding out her cold hands.

"In a moment, dear. Come upstairs with me and you shall see it,"

answered Aunt Faith, trying to lead her away. But Bessie resisted wildly. "I will not go!" she said. "I shall stay with Hugh until the last. Give me my letter! It is mine! You have no right to keep it.

Give it to me, I say!"

Alarmed at the expression of her eyes, Aunt Faith took out the captain's note-book, opened it, and handed it to her niece. The words were scrawled across the page in irregular lines; there seemed to be two paragraphs. The first was this: "Bessie, try to be good, dear; I love you." The second: "I can say the two sentences, Aunt Faith,--I am saying them now.--Hugh."

The writing was trembling and indistinct, and the last words barely legible; the signature was but a blur.

As Bessie deciphered the two messages, a sudden tremor shook her frame; then she read them over again, speaking the words aloud as if to give them reality. "Oh Hugh! Hugh!" she cried, "how can I live without you!"

With a quick movement, Aunt Faith turned up the gas and threw back the pall; then she put her arms around the desolate girl and raised her to her feet. "Look at him, Bessie!" she said earnestly; "look at dear Hugh, and think how hard it must have been for him to write those words, how hard he must have tried, how much he must have loved you!"

Hugh's face was calm, the curling, golden hair concealed the cruel wound on his temple, and there was a beautiful expression about the mouth, that strange peace which sometimes comes after death, as if sent to comfort the mourners. His right hand, bruised by the hard night's work, was covered with vine-leaves, but the left, the hand that had held the little child, was folded across his breast; he was dressed as he had been in life, and some one had placed a cross on his heart,--a little cross of ivy simply twined. "My soldier, true soldier of the cross," murmured Aunt Faith, stooping to kiss the cold brow.

"In those hours it all became clear to you. 'Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief;'--'Lord be merciful to me a sinner.' With these two sentences on your lips, you pa.s.sed into another country. Farewell, Hugh! You will not return to us, but we shall go to you."

Bessie had not raised her head from Aunt Faith's shoulder. She had not looked upon Hugh since they brought him home, and now she stood holding the note-book in her hands, and trembling convulsively.

"Look at him, Bessie," said Aunt Faith again; "look at dear Hugh. He is speaking to you now, in that dying message."

At last Bessie raised her head and looked upon the still face long and earnestly; then, throwing herself down upon her knees, she burst into a pa.s.sion of wild grief, calling upon Hugh, beseeching him to speak to her, and listening for his answer in vain. Aunt Faith did not try to check her, for these were her first tears; she knew they would relieve that tension of the head and heart, which, if long continued, must have ended in physical and mental prostration. After a few moments, Sibyl came in, and the two watched over Bessie until she sank exhausted to the floor, when they lifted her slight form and bore her upstairs.

Then, from the sitting-room, two of Hugh's friends came in, turned down the light, covered the still face, and went back to keep their watch in the desolate hours of mourning.

The sun was sinking towards the west in unclouded brightness when a throng gathered in the old stone house to pay their last tribute of respect to the dead. "Fitz Hugh Warrington, aged twenty years and ten months," said the inscription on the coffin-lid, and many tears dropped upon it, as, one by one, the friends bent over to take a farewell look at the handsome face with its cl.u.s.tering golden hair.

Then came the voice of the aged pastor, reading the words of the Gospel of St. John,--Hugh's favorite chapter, the fourteenth. A hymn followed,--Hugh's favorite hymn, "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning," and then they all knelt in prayer, the fervent prayer mingled with tears which ascends from the house where the dearest one of all is dead.

Mr. Leslie took no part in the services; he stood with Sibyl as one of the family. Aunt Faith leaned upon the arm of Mr. Hastings, who had come from New York immediately upon hearing of the accident. Tom and Gem stood together, but Bessie was alone; she wished no support, she said; she only wanted to stay by Hugh until the last. So they let her stand by the head of the coffin alone,--alone with her dead, and with her G.o.d.

Then came another hymn, and slowly the bearers lifted all that was left of their friend, and bore it forth under the same faded flower-arch, and down the garden-walk, where the throng made way for them on either side as they pa.s.sed.

The sun was setting, and, standing on the piazza, the choir sang,--

Abide with me; fast falls the even tide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts Bee, Help of the helpless, Oh abide with me.

I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless, Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness; Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy victory?

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me."

CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

A year had pa.s.sed, and the colored leaves were dropping for the second time upon Hugh's grave. Aunt Faith and Bessie were in the sitting-room of the old stone house, and the voices of Tom and Gem sounded through the open hall-door from the back garden, where they were sitting under the oak-tree. Hugh's portrait stood upon an easel, with living ivy growing around it from the little bracket which he had made that last day of summer. The afternoon sun struck the picture, and gave it a vivid realistic expression; Bessie saw it, and laying down her work, looked lovingly into the bright face. "It is very like Hugh, is it not, Aunt Faith?" she said at last.

Aunt Faith put on her gla.s.ses, and drew nearer the easel. "It is indeed a wonderful likeness, especially the eyes," she replied. "How came you to succeed so well?"

"I had been working at it all summer, aunt, but the eyes I could not copy to my satisfaction, they varied so constantly. It was Hugh's last day at home; don't you remember how I begged for the morning? He was sitting in the old arm-chair by the window, looking out towards the lake, talking about the future; he was so full of life and hope that morning,--so sure of success,--so happy in the thought of the good he could accomplish, that his eyes fairly shone. Something came over me; I took the brush, and, by a sudden inspiration, I succeeded in copying the expression exactly."

"It is a comfort to have the picture," said Aunt Faith, "and a blessed thought that we shall see that dear face again, and know it when we see it."

"You believe so, aunt? So do I. I believe that we shall love each other there as here, only far, far better. To be with those we love, away from affliction, care, and temptation,--that is heaven."

"I often think of the meetings there, Bessie. Hugh found his father and his mother there. While we were mourning here, they were rejoicing there."

"I no longer mourn, Aunt Faith; I have found comfort."

"I know that, my dear, and am thankful for it; but you are sad at times."

"I feel sad over myself, aunt, over my loneliness, and my faults. I feel sorry for myself as one feels sorry for a child; I sympathize with myself as though I was another person. Sometimes it seems as if my soul sat apart peaceful and quiet, while all the rest of me gave way to deep despondency. But all the while I know that Hugh is safe; that I shall go to him, and that through the mercy of our Saviour we shall find eternal joy. And I always try to remember that Hugh disliked morbid grief; that he used to say the world was a beautiful place; that we had no right to despise it; that as long as we were in it, it was our duty to make others happy and be happy ourselves.

Therefore I try to be cheerful, and when I think of Hugh, I am cheerful. It is only when I think of myself that despondency comes back to me."

"You have done well, dear," said Aunt Faith; "I have seen your struggles, and rejoiced over your victories. I have confidence in you, Bessie, and if I am called away, I can leave the children in your charge with an easy heart."

"They are no longer children, Aunt Faith."

"True! Gem is thirteen, but she will need watchful care for many years yet. And Tom, although tall and strong, is still a thorough boy at heart, and the next five or six years are full of danger for him."

"Tom is a fine fellow," said Bessie warmly; "he is full of generosity and courage."

"Yes, but there are corresponding dangers for his sanguine temperament. However, although still young, he has an earnest faith; Hugh's death was a lesson which he will never forget, and all though he may often go astray, I feel sure he will _come_ back again at the last. Gem, too, is one of the lambs of the flock; she has improved greatly the past year. I have had deep cause to be thankful, and I am thankful," said Aunt Faith, folding her hands reverently. "The children Thou gavest to me are all Thine; Thou hast cared for them and brought them to a knowledge of Thy goodness. One hast Thou taken, the dearest of all; taken him away from trouble to come. Lord, I thank Thee, for all Thy goodness." As Aunt Faith murmured these words, she leaned back in her chair and closed her own heart in silence.

After a few moments, Bessie went out on the piazza to welcome Mr.

Leslie and Sibyl as they came up the walk.

"Aunt Faith is resting in her chair," she said, smiling; "we will sit out here, if you please. How well you look, Sibyl!"

Mrs. Leslie threw off her bonnet, and the light shone in her golden hair. She looked well, better than she had ever looked as Sibyl Warrington; for, although her skin had lost something of its extreme delicacy, her face had gained in animation, and her manners in cordiality, so that people who could not love her before, loved her now with sincere affection. Her beautiful hair was coiled gracefully around her head, and she was dressed with as much care as ever, for Sibyl was Sibyl still, and could no more change her love for harmony and taste than the leopard could change his spots. But everything _was_ simple, inexpensive, and fashioned by her own fingers, so that although all admired, not even the most censorious could find fault with the appearance of the pastor's wife.

Mr. Leslie, too, was somewhat altered; he looked well and vigorous, but his manner was more gentle. The poor said he was more compa.s.sionate, the sick said he was more gentle, his congregation said he was more eloquent; Hugh's death and Sibyl's sorrow had not been without their lessons for him, also.

The little chapel was still poor and struggling, but husband and wife worked together with heart and strength. Sibyl was invaluable; she threw her system, her energy, and her tact into the week-day work, and her husband found his Sunday labors doubly successful, because they were followed up and carried out during the six working days as well as on the day of rest.

"I have had a letter from Mrs. Stanly, to-day, Bessie," said Mr.