Chapter LVI: Over the Water

In the loveliest county of Old England stood one of those fine baronial castles that have outlived the ravages of many a rebellion. It had not only defied all ordinary causes of decay, but grown beautiful from time, which loves to make up for its own depredations by the embellishments which nature is sure to supply as it draws art slowly back to its own bosom.

In this noble mansion, surrounded by a tenantry that worshipped her, and retainers who had grown old in those majestic walls, the Countess of Sefton performed the duties of a station that required no ordinary ability; and, despite the sufferings which we know of, performed them well. She was one of those who grow lofty and strong by suffering. Had that woman thought only of herself, or most frequently of herself, she would have died broken-hearted, or dwindled down into the sentimental nothingness to which sorrow often levels a weak mind. But Barbara Stafford--for we like that name best--strove to forget herself, her troubles, and her wrongs, in a benevolent effort to serve her fellow-creatures. She allowed herself no time for useless lamentation, but gave all her energies and vast wealth for the good of suffering humanity. Pleasant cottages arose, like enchantment, all over her vast estates; school-houses reared their modern fronts among the moss-grown buildings of past times. Wherever industry could be encouraged by rewards, it was generously fostered. With so many human beings depending upon her efforts for their advancement in life, she held the sorrows that always lay heavy at her heart in abeyance, and stilled the yearnings of a loving nature by constant self-abnegation.

Barbara lived a solitary life so far as intercourse with her peers went. She neither sought nor greatly avoided the society which would have crowded around her. Having spent so much of her life abroad, she had few acquaintances in England, and made none after her return from America. Twice she received letters from that country, directed in a stiff, cramped hand, which always left her in a state of depression for days after she read them. But a gracious calmness would gently sweep these sad memories away, and she went on steadily with her life, twining hope into prayer, and waiting God's time for her deliverance.

Barbara loved the stately edifice, which had been repaired and beautified by her grandmother. Indeed, hers was a nature to love every thing good and beautiful. Her rooms were full of pictures, statues, and rare objects collected in her travels. The gardens and broad pleasure-grounds around her mansion glowed with flowers, which clustered thickest and brightest beneath the windows of her private apartments. Sorrow had neither rendered her austere nor indifferent. She loved the grand old forest-trees which waved in groups upon the lawn, and every tiny blossom that gemmed the turf at their roots. The pretty birds that flashed from thicket to tree-bough found a welcome in her heart, heavy as it was at times. She strove, with Christian fortitude, to replace the husband and son lost to her, by the gentle beauties of nature; and, desolated as she was, life had its sunny side even for her.

One morning this noble woman--the more noble that she was so womanly--sat alone in a little breakfast-room which overlooked a vista of the park, and nearer yet a flower-garden radiant with June roses and such sister flowers as link spring to summer. That morning she was weary and heavy-hearted; her mind wandered far away in spite of herself, and a strange yearning to look upon the two faces dearest to her in life seized upon her. She sat gazing out upon the flowers, with unconscious tears rolling down her cheeks, when a servant knocked at the door, and, receiving no answer, came in.

"My lady, a note from a gentleman who waits below: two others, with a lovely young lady, are with him; but he is the only one who asks to see you."

Barbara reached forth her hand wearily, and took the note thus presented from the salver. She did not look at the address, but tore the seal apart, and read one word--William Phipps--all the rest ran together, and she could distinguish nothing. With her lips apart, and the paper shaking in her hands, she sat a full minute gazing upon the name without seeing it. The voice of the servant aroused her.

"My lady, is there an answer?"

"Wait."

The voice in which this one word was uttered scarcely rose above a whisper. Barbara swept one hand across her forehead again and again, clearing her confused vision. At last she read--

"I am here, my wife--here, with our son and our old friend
Samuel Parris. Will you receive me? Can you forgive me?

"WILLIAM PHIPPS."

When Barbara Stafford arose, and turned her face toward the servant, it was so radiant that the man stared at her in amazement; but she gave no other expression of the ecstasy of joy that swelled even to pain in her heart.

"Show the gentleman up to this room," she said. "I will see him here."

The servant went out, closing the door after him; and there Barbara stood, in the centre of the room, with one hand supported by the carved woodwork of her chair, and the other pressed to her bosom, waiting for the one blissful moment which would be enough to repay all her sorrows, all her anguish of suspense. She heard the first sound of his footstep, and her heart, that had stood still up to that moment, beat fast and loud. The door opened, and the husband of her youth stood on the threshold. She could not speak; she did not move--but that look was enough. His strong arms saved her from falling. Her head was pressed to his bosom; she felt his kisses on her forehead; but no words were spoken--a few sobs, a name brokenly uttered, a rain of tears falling delicious and still, like dew upon thirsty roses--then this man and woman sat down, hand in hand, looking at each other.

They were no longer young; he found threads of gray in those golden tresses, and traces of time around the loveliness of her mouth. But what of that? Those who love each other go out from their youth soul-bound, and time has no change which does not deepen and sanctify that true affection which can perish only with the soul's immortality.

After a few moments of this delicious silence Barbara spoke:

"Our son, William; is he here?"

"Yes, my wife, and waiting impatiently. But not yet. Even he must not break upon our heaven so soon."

Beyond the crowning happiness of these few minutes we will not go.

THE END.

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