Ishmael; Or, In the Depths. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

storm of grief that could not be vented by the awful bed of death.

      Nora then beckoned Hannah, who approached and stooped low to catch her words.

      "Sister, you would not refuse to grant my dying prayers, would you?"

      "Oh, no, no, Nora!" wept the woman.

      "Then promise me to forgive poor Herman the wrong that he has done us; he did not mean to do it, Hannah."

      "I know he did not, love; he explained it all to me. The first wife was a bad woman who took him in. He thought she had been killed in a railway collision, when he married you, and he never found out his mistake until she followed him home."

      "I knew there was something of that sort; but I did not know what. Now, Hannah, promise me not to breathe a word to any human being of his second marriage with me; it would ruin him, you know, Hannah; for no one would believe but that he knew his first wife was living all the time. Will you promise me this, Hannah?"

      Even though she spoke with great difficulty, Hannah did not answer until she repeated the question.

      Then with a sob and a gulp the elder sister said:

      "Keep silence, and let people reproach your memory, Nora? How can I do that?"

      "Can reproach reach me—there?" she asked, raising her hand towards heaven.

      "But your child, Nora; for his sake his mother's memory should be vindicated!"

      "At the expense of making his father out a felon? No, Hannah, no; people will soon forget he ever had a mother. He will only be known as Hannah Worth's nephew, and she is everywhere respected. Promise me, Hannah."

      "Nora, I dare not."

      "Sister, I am dying; you cannot refuse the prayer of the dying."

      Hannah was silent.

      "Promise me! promise me! promise me! while my ears can yet take in your voice!" Nora's words fell fainter and fainter; she was failing fast.

      "Oh, Heaven, I promise you, Nora—the Lord forgive me for it!" wept Hannah.

      "The Lord bless you for it, Hannah." Her voice sunk into murmurs and the cold shades of death crept over her face again; but rallying her fast failing strength she gasped:

      "My boy, quick! Oh, quick, Hannah!"

      Hannah lifted the babe from his nest and held him low to meet his mother's last kiss.

      "There, now, lay him on my arm, Hannah, close to my left side, and draw my hand over him; I would feel him near me to the very last."

      With trembling fingers the poor woman obeyed.

      And the dying mother held her child to her heart, and raised her glazing eyes full of the agony of human love to Heaven, and prayed:

      "O pitiful Lord, look down in mercy on this poor, poor babe! Take him under thy care!" And with this prayer she sank into insensibility.

      Hannah flew to the door and beckoned Herman. He came in, the living image of despair. And both went and stood by the bed. They dared not break the sacred spell by speech. They gazed upon her in silent awe.

      Her face was gray and rigid; her eyes were still and stony; her breath and pulse were stopped. Was she gone? No, for suddenly upon that face of death a great light dawned, irradiating it with angelic beauty and glory; and once more with awful solemnity deep bell-like tones tolled forth the notes.

      "Out of the depths have I called to Thee And Thou hast heard my voice."

      And with these holy words upon her lips the gentle spirit of Nora Worth, ruined maiden but innocent mother, winged its way to heaven.

CHAPTER XIII.

       Table of Contents

      THE FLIGHT OF HERMAN.

      Tread softly—bow the head—

       In reverent silence bow;

       There's one in that poor shed,

       One by that humble bed,

       Greater than thou!

       Oh, change! Stupendous change!

       Fled the immortal one!

       A moment here, so low,

       So agonized, and now—

       Beyond the sun!

       —Caroline Bowles.

      For some time Hannah Worth and Herman Brudenell remained standing by the bedside, and gazing in awful silence upon the beautiful clay extended before them, upon which the spirit in parting had left the impress of its last earthly smile!

      Then the bitter grief of the bereaved woman burst through all outward restraints, and she threw herself upon the bed and clasped the dead body of her sister to her breast, and broke into a tempest of tears and sobs and lamentations.

      "Oh, Nora! my darling! are you really dead and gone from me forever? Shall I never hear the sound of your light step coming in, nor meet the beamings of your soft eyes, nor feel your warm arms around my neck, nor listen to your coaxing voice, pleading for some little indulgence which half the time I refused you?

      "How could I have refused you, my darling, anything, hard-hearted that I was! Ah! how little did I think how soon you would be taken from me, and I should never be able to give you anything more! Oh, Nora, come back to me, and I will give you everything I have—yes, my eyes, and my life, and my soul, if they could bring you back and make you happy!

      "My beautiful darling, you were the light of my eyes and the pulse of my heart and the joy of my life! You were all that I had in the world! my little sister and my daughter and my baby, all in one! How could you die and leave me all alone in the world, for the love of a man? me who loves you more than all the men on the earth could love!

      "Nora, I shall look up from my loom and see your little wheel standing still—and where the spinner? I shall sit down to my solitary meals and see your vacant chair—and where my companion? I shall wake in the dark night and stretch out my arms to your empty place beside me—and where my warm loving sister? In the grave! in the cold, dark, still grave!

      "Oh, Heaven! Heaven! how can I bear it?—I, all day in the lonely house! all night in the lonely bed! all my life in the lonely world! the black, freezing, desolate world! and she in her grave! I cannot bear it! Oh, no, I cannot bear it! Angels in heaven, you know that I cannot! Speak to the Lord, and ask him to take me!

      "Lord, Lord, please to take me along with my child. We were but two! two orphan sisters! I have grown gray in taking care of her! She cannot do without me, nor I without her! We were but two! Why should one be taken and the other left? It is not fair, Lord! I say it is not fair!" raved the mourner, in that blind and passionate abandonment of grief which is sure at its climax to reach frenzy, and break into open rebellion against Omnipotent Power.

      And it is well for us that the Father is more merciful than our tenderest thoughts, for he pardons the rebel and heals his wounds.

      The sorrow of the young man, deepened by remorse, was too profound for such outward vent. He leaned against the bedpost, seemingly colder, paler, and more lifeless than the dead body before him.

      At length the tempest of Hannah's grief raged itself into temporary rest. She arose, composed the form of her sister, and turned and laid her hand upon the shoulder of Herman, saying calmly:

      "It is all over. Go, young gentleman, and wrestle with your sorrow and your remorse, as you may. Such wrestlings will be the only punishment your rashness will receive in this world! Be free of dread from me. She left you her forgiveness as a legacy, and you are sacred from my pursuit. Go, and leave me with my dead."

      Herman dropped