With a very slow step, aching heart, and knees that trembled beneath her, Isa reascended the staircase. One apparently insuperable difficulty had been overcome,—Gaspar had consented to make full reparation. Isa could feel thankful for this; but she had now a breathing-space for consideration, and with inexpressible repugnance she now recoiled from the task set before her. It had been hard to banish from her heart resentful emotions in regard to Cora; it had been hard to Isa to receive an enemy into her home, to tend her as a sister, to risk health and life in her service. But there had been nothing to wound pride in all this; on the contrary, Isa had stood in the elevated position of a benefactress, as one enjoying the noblest kind of revenge by repaying injuries with kindness. The consciousness of this had brought a feeling of gratification. But her position was painfully altered now. Isa must humble herself in the presence of a woman whom she neither loved nor respected; she must, as the representative of her brother, confess guilt—ask for forgiveness—plead for mercy! Isa stopped half-way on the stairs, supporting herself on the banister, for every fibre in her frame was trembling with strong emotion. She had ventured, as it were, to the outskirts of the camp of Midian, and felt that she lacked courage to strike the final blow for freedom. A silent cry for help arose to heaven from the depths of a suffering heart.
Cora was one to whom it would be especially painful to make a confession such as that which burdened the soul of Isa. Miss Madden had been brought much into contact with the world, had imbibed its spirit, and adopted one of its most dangerous ideas,—namely, a disbelief in the existence of faith as a ruling motive. Notwithstanding the noble example of piety which she had had before her in her own brother, Cora had persisted in regarding all men as governed either by self-interest or the love of approbation.
“Sir Robert Walpole said, and said truly,” Cora had once lightly observed, “that every man has his price; only some will have it told down in hard cash, and others are quite contented with the paper-money of praise.”
Thus Cora refused to see the reflected glory of the Saviour in His people: however brightly their light might shine, she believed that it was fed from an earthly source, and eagerly caught at every instance of inconsistency in the servants of God to confirm her theory that they only wore piety as a mask, and, in fact, were much the same with the show of religion as the rest of the world were without it.
It was this fallacy more than anything else that had hardened the heart of Cora, and made her justify herself in her own indifference towards spiritual things. She would draw down all to the same low level as herself, and thus hope to escape condemnation in a crowd. Cora’s chilling disbelief in the practical influence of faith had been shaken when she had first been admitted into the home of Isa Gritton while suffering from an infectious complaint. The ice which the world had encrusted round her heart had given some signs of melting. Then the idea that the Grittons were, after all, only acting from self-interest, had almost restored her frigid scepticism; she would not recognize the reality and the power of that faith which worketh by love. The sudden and strange disappearance of Gaspar had confirmed Cora in her impressions. “He flies me because he fears me,” was the reflection of the proud woman; and the insolence of her spirit had broken out even in the presence of the anxious sister. “Perhaps Miss Gritton has an idea not only whither, but for what cause, her brother had so suddenly vanished from this neighbourhood,” had been Cora’s sneering remark.
And yet, with all her bitterness and worldliness of spirit, Cora was capable of more generous feeling. She was a woman, and, like a woman, could cherish disinterested affection. Cora keenly felt her own isolation in life, that isolation which she feared that her personal disfigurement would now render perpetual. She had cut herself off from the proffered affection of Arthur and Lina; she had quarrelled with Lionel’s wife; she had many acquaintances, but was painfully aware that she had never made one true friend. Cora, especially during her illness, had often yearned for the love of a gentle, sympathizing heart, and something of gratitude, something of admiration, had drawn her towards Isa Gritton.
“How ill Miss Gritton looks to-night; I fear that she is sickening for the fever,” Mrs. Holdich had observed, on Isa’s quitting the room to go and search for papers in the study, at the time when, as the reader knows, Lottie was exploring the vault.
The observation had inflicted a sharp pang on Cora; she was startled on realizing the possibility that Isa’s life might indeed be given for her own, and a contrast would suggest itself between the comparative value of those lives. Isa, as Cora knew from Rebekah Holdich, was the light of her brother’s home, the gentle benefactress of the poor, and, as Cora was at that very time experiencing, a generous friend to those who needed her aid. In her, more than in any one else, Cora had caught a glimpse of the beauty of holiness; in her, more than in any one else, Cora had been almost forced to recognize the power of faith; and at that moment the proud, cold woman felt that there was one being on earth whom she could love, one whom she could not endure to see fall a sacrifice to her generous kindness to herself.
Cora’s bitter but salutary reflections were interrupted by the noise and excitement below, which followed the discovery of Gaspar Gritton in the vault. The loud call of Hannah for assistance was distinctly heard in the upper rooms occupied by Miss Madden; and Cora sent down Mrs. Holdich in haste to ascertain the cause of such an unusual disturbance. Rebekah did not return for a considerable time, and Cora grew so impatient that she could hardly restrain herself from hurrying downstairs. Mrs. Holdich came at last with the information that Mr. Gritton had been found in an insensible state in a vault, that he had been removed to his own apartment, and that his sister was carefully tending him there. This was all which Cora could learn from Rebekah, and it did not satisfy her thirst for information; she determined not to retire to rest until she had seen Isa Gritton. To beguile the time, Cora went up to Isa’s little bookcase, hoping to find there some light reading to amuse herself with. One volume, from the elegance of its binding, attracted Miss Madden’s attention, and she drew it forth from its place. It contained no work of fiction, as Cora had hoped and expected, but a selection of hymns. At another time Cora would have replaced the book, with perhaps an expression of scorn; but she was in a softened mood on that night, and her eye was attracted by the marking and double-marking on the margin of many of the pages. Chiefly from curiosity, but possibly from a better motive, Miss Madden carried the book to the place where she usually sat on her soft-cushioned chair, seated herself, and began to read in a desultory way.
One of the hymns which had been most strongly marked by Isa was the well-known one commencing with the line,—
“And dost thou say, Ask what thou wilt?”
This hymn was an especial favourite with Isa, who knew it by heart; but the proud, selfish woman who now perused it, in the stillness of night and the seclusion of a sick-room, seemed to be introduced into a new world of sensation as she read the lines, which express a Christian’s most fervent desire:
“More of Thy presence, Lord, impart,
More of Thine image let me bear;
Enthrone Thyself within my heart,
And reign without a rival there.
“Grant this request, I ask no more,
But to Thy care the rest resign;—
Sick, or in health, or rich, or poor,
All shall be well if Thou art mine.”
“Can it be that any human being really feels this?” thought Cora, half closing the volume. “I cannot believe it. And yet Isa Gritton has acted as if she felt it. But no, no—she is at this moment playing the part of an accomplice of her money-loving brother. Her faith may make her like such a book as this, mark it, perhaps cry over it; it may give her that gentleness and kindliness which have half won me over to love her in spite of myself; it may—yes, it may possibly have some effect in taking away the fear of losing beauty, or even life; but when it comes to the question of its requiring such integrity of conduct as would involve loss and disgrace, faith will find it expedient to confine itself to sentimental devotion, and the saint will come forth from the closet to act in the world—as the children of the world always act.”
A gentle hand noiselessly turned the handle of the door, and Isa glided into the room. She was surprised to see Cora still awake and sitting up at the midnight hour.
“I thought that I should have found my patient asleep,” she observed.
“I could not have slept till I had seen you; I wanted to hear about your brother.”
Isa rather sank than seated herself upon a chair; a cold shiver ran through her frame; she knew not if the overpowering sensations which oppressed her arose only from the reaction after painful excitement, or if she were indeed sickening for a terrible complaint.
“I may be delirious ere morning,” thought Isa; “I must speak now, or I never may have power to speak. May it not be deemed providential that I am given an opportunity of confession by this midnight interview with Cora!”
“Miss Gritton, you look sadly ill,” said Cora, with more of sympathy than Isa had ever before heard in her tone. “Are you very anxious regarding your brother?”
“I am very anxious indeed,” replied Isa faintly, glancing at the closed door which divided the ladies from the room in which Mrs. Holdich was resting, to be sure that no ear but Cora’s should hear what she was bracing up her courage to say. “Miss Madden, I have come charged with a message to you from Gaspar.” Isa paused, for she was very breathless; her heart fluttered—she had a strange difficulty in articulating her words; she dared not look up and meet the keen gaze which she was certain was fixed upon her. “My brother believes—feels sure—that there is no evidence which could be produced in a court of law which could bring home to him that—that of which you have been led to suspect him.” Another very painful pause; Isa pressed her hand to her side to still the throbbing of her heart. “But,” she continued with an effort, “Gaspar knows—owns—that though man cannot convict, there is a higher tribunal than man’s, and before it he cannot plead his innocence. It was indeed not your property which was lost in the Orissa—your money is in the hands of my brother, and shall be restored, principal and interest; you shall have ample satisfaction as far as gold can give it. And oh, Cora—Miss Madden—will not this compensation suffice? will you not forgive all the past, and spare the reputation of him who thus throws himself on your indulgence? will you not shield from reproach one who is ready amply to redeem the wrong committed under strong temptation, and show your generosity by burying this unhappy affair in silence and oblivion?”
Isa clasped her hands as she spoke in the fervour of her pleading; her eyes suddenly raised met those of Cora, and to her surprise beheld them brimming over with tears.
Cora rose from her seat. “O Isa,” she exclaimed, “fear nothing from me! Had the wrong been tenfold, I have learned from you how to forgive—and much besides!” And with a burst of emotion, which all her pride could not restrain, Cora threw her arms around Isa, who found herself, to her great astonishment, pressed to the heart of one who had been her bitter, malignant enemy.
THE CONFESSION.
The victories of faith are not only over inward foes: when the ways of a man are pleasing to the Lord, He maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him. Isa, in her gentleness and Christian sympathy, her uprightness, her obedience to the call of duty, had done more to lead her proud, erring heart to repentance than all the sermons which had fallen on the ear of Cora like seed on the trodden wayside. Cora had never realized how far she herself was from being a Christian, till she had seen exemplified in one of her own sex and station what a Christian should be. It was in the hour when Isa felt humiliated, covered with shame for the errors of a brother, that she had forced from proud lips that tribute to her character which was in itself an acknowledgment of inferiority such as no being had ever before wrung from Cora Madden. Isa had won a noble triumph—she had conquered the heart of her foe.
