Grace Dawson [pp. 106-111]

1869.] LITERA TURE SCIENCE, AND ART 111
the granite. On the last day but one that Mr. Vane was to stay, a
little picnic was planned, to be enjoyed at the farthermost of the
fords and five miles from any house. The minister and Grace won
the honors of equestrianship, galloping along precipitous ledges where
the queenly Irene trembled for her life, and John Wilde for his horses.
It was a still day, very warm for the season, and the negro predictions of a storm were laughed at. But in the midst of the enjoyment,
as John in the wildest of spirits drank a toast to Nature, that dread
power responded by the first mutterings of her storms. Beneath the
almost perpendicular mountain, and the thick trees, the mustering of
the black cloud-squadrons had been unnoticed, and the first warning
was a dash of rain that suggested seeking for a cave, to the two gentlemen, and wishing for wrappings and umbrellas to the ladies. An
over-leaning rock was found, with muarks of wagoners' camp-fires to
show its previous tenantry, and it proved an admirable, dry, and safe
shelter from which to view that grandest of sights, a storm in the
mountains. We shall not describe it, nor will he who has heard that
thunder-drum of heaven beating time to the echoes of the eternal hills,
or watched the spray of cascades created from every cliff or rocky
barrier, or who has cowered as the lightning struck the giant pine
on the crest, and filled the gorge with the rain of fiery splinters,
ever attempt to paint in words what the hills and the heavens labor
to produce.
The storm, commencing at noon, was not over until near night, and
then the frequent fords of the stream, swollen to swimming depth in
places, were exceedingly perilous. But Richard Vane knew the
ground and led the way, and the spirits of all parties arose as all of the
fords were passed save the last one, which was very swift and narrow,
but not deep. It was reached at dusk, and they saw with terror that
a raft or dam of driftwood and logs had formed in the only passable
part, and the imprisoned water was dashing over this and raging
through the dark ravine below.
John Wilde was flushed with the wine he had been almost the only
one to drink, and at once proposed to urge the horses down the bank,
and through the sharp rocks of the water-filled ravine. Mr. Vane
looked and said, "It would be almost certain death to attempt it."
"But I am not going to stay in the woods all night, like an owl,"
said the other, "and I will attempt it."
"But the ladies could not go!"
"I will find a ford for them easy enough."
"If you insist, stay with them and let me try it, as I am accustomed to these places."
"Just like you, to take an easy glory when you know I would not
give way!"
All remonstrance by his friend, or entreaty by his sister and cousin,
was of no avail, and as he urged his tired but fiery animal down the
steep bank, the young minister threw off his coat, and sprang down
to the brink after him. With a splash, horse and rider were in the
water and half-way across, when the forefeet of the quadruped slipped
from a hidden rock near the surface, and, as he fell over on his side,
the head of the rash rider struck another sharp ledge with a dull thud,
heard above the roar of the torrent; and, instantly washed from his
seat, he was swept away.
Quickly as this was done, the watching man on the bank had
plunged in after him, while Irene shrieked, and Grace prayed.
For a while nothing more could be seen in the gathering gloom
but the horse escaping, evidently injured, and limping up the other
bank. Soon, however, a faint voice called fAr below, and Grace was
the one to clamber down the rocks, and find Richard Vane dripping
on the bank, and supporting the motionless form of his friend. One
look at that great gap in his head was enough even in that dim light,
and the finger on heart or pulse felt no throb. He was dead.
They two had to bear the body up to the road, for Irene had
fainted where she was left.
It was midnight before Richard had cut a path with his knife
through the thick brush of the mountain above, and nearly day before
the horses were led over it, and the dead man carried by the strong
mountaineer, and Irene led along its slippery margin by the steady
hand of Gmace.
Then the living man carried the dead before him on his horse,
while those of the two women were followed by the lame animal.
Ais they at last descended the mountain-spur, and crossed the same
stream, already much lessened in volume by the brief time, the white,
scared look came to her face again, as Grace thought of who had
sat upon that old log beside her, and questioned the existence of a
God. The thought would come to her,-Had he recognized Him and
His providence now?
He at least had solved the mystery, if not the purpose and origin
of death. What of the beyond?
The young Vane, with his left arm in a sling, from a sprain received that night, was gone to his flock and his three churches.
The dead man had sent to his Northern home for burial. The father, Jonathan Wilde, came to rent out the farm, and the three saddened women shadowed their Philadelphia home with black robes.
Irene had not made a captive of Mr. Vane, and Dora was seen lno
more.
Christmas was dull enough that year, with the hope and pride of
the household gone, and the aunt seemed to look upon Grace with
some such aversion as if she was the cause of his death. Jonathan
Wilde had frequent talks with her, and seemed to delight in pointing
out to her openings for the investment of capital, to which the ten
thousand still in the hands of Mr. Mann would have been utterly inadequate.
In February of 1867 she read a notice that Rev. Richard Vane, of
Georgia, had received a transfer to a metropolitan church near the
famed Avenue of New York, and, as the churches North and South
were still separated, the paper was particular to state that influential
men who had known him at the university were the parties who had
brought it about with some difficulty.
His salary was ample now, and he came to see her, and told of the
beautiful brown-stone church, and the grand organ and sweet-voiced
choir. When Mr. Mann came to see her, she returned to New York
with him, and sat under the ministry of the backwoods preacher, who
went with her the next day to visit her father's grave.
Among the early violets at the foot of the slab, he told his love,
and found, when she leaned on his breast and told him all (all but the
secret), that he had won a heart no other ever possessed.
We can know very little of the emotions of the dead, nor do we
certainly know if they are concerned for the dear ones left behind.
Yet "'Tis a beautiful belief, that spirits of the dead
Come in the lonely hours of night to watch around our bed,"
and it is not unlikely that the father of Grace led her mother to some
rift in the blue pavement of heaven, and said, "Our child has more
than wealth-the riches of love!"
Before the June roses of 1867 had poured their sweets into the lap
of summer, they were married from her Philadelphia home; and it was
Uncle Jonathan Wilde who put the title-deeds to one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars of New York property into the hands of the astonished bridegroom, and said, "I have given you an heiress, sir!"
Mr. Mann was not so pompous when he accounted for the rents
and the ten thousand. He only said, as he refused all compensation,
"I am richer than you are, sir, and she was the child of my friend."
Grace says that she is kept from becoming vain of becoming Vane,
by her husband, who insists upon changing her old name of Grace
Dawson for that of the English heroine-Grac.Darlitrg. Ile generally gets it wrong, however, and calla her his Darling Grace.
The minister now owns the "Happy Valley," and, with his little
wife, who is really blooming into beauty under the sun of love, will
spend his summer vacations with his parents, who live there.
Our story, reader, has been of Love and Death, the twin rivals for
the empire of life. But no one can tell so sweetly as Tennyson how
love always wins:
"What time the mighty moon was gathering light,
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a cassia, full in view,
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight.
' You must begone,' said Death,' these walks are mine.'
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted said,'This hour is thine;
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So, in the light of great eternity,
Life eminent, creates the shade of death;
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign forever, over all.'"
LI7T-ERA TU'_RE, SCIENCE, A-rD ART
1869.]
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