View source for CHAPTER 23 The Withered Heart!

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<p>Helen was in error. Her  heart was&nbsp;<em>not</em><em>&nbsp;</em>a sealed book. Edward Linton had&nbsp;<em>unlocked the clasps</em>&nbsp;— had opened it — had written his name on the first page in characters  never to be effaced — and it was all in vain that she tried to shut the book  again, or turn her eyes away from the&nbsp;<em>writing</em><em>&nbsp;</em>it contained. But it was her secret alone, and one that she meant to  carry with her to the grave.<br><br>
  It would have required a colder temperament than that of Edward Linton  to find, in the placid love we bear for sister or friend, anything like a  substitute for the lover's ardent passion; or to live in almost daily  association with the being dearer to him than all the world beside, and yet  feel the doom of an abiding spirit-exile.<br><br>
  No truth was clearer than that Helen  was the only woman he could ever love; and he was a man who had too pure an  ideal of life, and too high an appreciation of the sacredness of marriage, ever  to wed from any worldly or selfish considerations. He could never have said to  any other living woman, &quot;<em>I love you&quot;</em>&nbsp;— for that would have been false; he could never have uttered vows of  fidelity, when his heart was all another's — even though another's, hopelessly.<br><br>
  For a while, the young man continued to visit Helen,  as of old. But the sight of her only inflamed his passion, and made his life  wretched. The quiet attentions of the&nbsp;<em>brother</em> and&nbsp;<em>friend</em><em>&nbsp;</em>were forever losing  themselves in the warmer actions of the&nbsp;<em>lover</em>, and were as often  repelled by a womanly reserve that was ice to his feelings. A year of such a  life, during the course of which he saw no change in Helen except an increase  of endearing qualities, warned him, by its effect upon his mind, of the  necessity, in mere self-protection — for an external separation. It would not  do for him to meet her, except at remote intervals. As to&nbsp;<em>forgetting</em><em>&nbsp;</em>her, that he neither  desired nor sought. Hope was not dead  in his heart. No, no! He had faith in the future — though it was so far away in  the distance, that the brightness of its coming dawn was not yet visible on any  of the cloud-topped mountains.<br><br>
  And so Edward   Linton withdrew, and stood afar  off with his eyes turned away. Very lonely was his life — lonely and  hermit-like. But he was a thinking, earnest man; and, withal, one who, deeply  conscious of the depressing force of hereditary tendencies, sought, through  Divine power, to rise into a higher life than that which we call natural — a  life of spiritual qualities and perceptions. He read, and studied, and thought  with an earnest, searching spirit. Happily it was in the right direction. New  truth dawned upon his mind — not that of a mere natural, sensual, and blinding  philosophy which never lifts itself above the clouds and dimness of this world;  but that of true spiritual religion, bright, clear, and heavenly in all its  elucidations. As he pondered, light shone into his perceptions, and the&nbsp;<em>mystery of Providence</em><em>&nbsp;</em>gradually unfolded itself, until forms of order, wisdom, and beauty  appeared, where, a little while before, everything seemed hidden or deformed.<br><br>
  Much, however, was yet seen darkly; and particularly dark was the  providence which separated him from one who should have been his married  partner — one, whose interior life remained in as stern an isolation as his  own. This he could not comprehend — this troubled him. He had not yet fully  apprehended, though he was not prepared to deny the truth that, to both of  them, this painful discipline might only be a preparation for that true  internal oneness into which only purified spirits may enter.<br><br>
  As for Helen, the years glided  over her head very placidly, so far as the world, or even those who saw her  daily, could perceive. Her sisters, under her loving care, had now passed  through the years of pleasant girlhood, were grown up to woman's estate, and  were all married well, in the ordinary acceptance of that phrase. None of them  possessed Helen's acute feelings; none  of them had spirits as finely attuned. Their husbands were men of ordinary mould;  and both husbands and wives were satisfied with their choice. But the marriages  were not such as gave any encouragement to Helen,  to venture in their track upon&nbsp;<em>so treacherous a sea.</em> <br><br>
  We have said that, so far as the world could see, the years moved on  with Helen very placidly, But the  world had no eyes for her&nbsp;<em>interior</em><em>&nbsp;</em>life. Her&nbsp;<em>heart</em><em>&nbsp;</em>sacredly kept its own&nbsp;<em>secrets</em>. The page on which Edward Linton  had written his name, was yet unmarked by another word, and time had neither  blurred the sheet, nor dimmed the impress. Whenever she turned her eyes inward,  she saw the inscription; and many a sigh had passed her lips, and many a tear  fallen, as she gazed upon it. For him, she often grieved; rarely for herself —  for well had she learned her lessons of endurance. <br><br>
  When he ceased visiting her, she felt a kind of relief; but yet she  missed his companionship, and there followed a sense of loneliness and  desertion that was almost painful. But she subdued this feeling, or at least  made an effort to do so, and sought, in the many duties of maiden-sister and  maiden-aunt — to find a tranquillity of spirit, which she endeavoured to accept  as a compensation for the higher pleasures to which every woman is born. But  the&nbsp;<em>voice of nature</em><em>&nbsp;</em>was never entirely silenced — the&nbsp;<em>yearnings for a truer  life</em><em>&nbsp;</em>were never fully  repressed.<br><br>
  Time moved on apace; and there grew up around Helen,  in the homes of her sisters, a band of young children, to whom she ministered  with a loving care, and in whose eyes she ever appeared as beautiful and good  as an angel. At remote intervals, she met Edward Linton  in company. He was still unmarried. He never approached her familiarly, on  these occasions; but, after their rather cold and formal greeting, she would  often, as she looked to the quarter of the room where he happened to be, find  his eyes resting upon her in a gaze so sadly earnest that it would haunt her  for weeks afterwards. These meetings always disturbed her spirit, and threw  questioning doubts into her mind. To<em> herself</em>&nbsp;only, she had been just!&nbsp;<em>Self-protection</em><em>&nbsp;</em>was one of the first laws of our being! But, had she been just to&nbsp;<em>him</em>? Ah! that was a new view of the case. Was she not willing to make some  sacrifice for one who loved her with an undying love? for one, whose whole life  was desolate, because deprived of her companionship?<br><br>
  This was her state of mind, when, one day, the husband of a sister with  whom she was spending a little time, said, in her presence —<br><br>
  &quot;I saw Mr.   Linton off in the steamer  today.&quot;<br><br>
  &quot;Ah! Is he going to make the tour of Europe?&quot;  said the young wife.<br><br>
  &quot;No; he goes to reside in London,  as the representative of their house there.&quot;<br><br>
  &quot;Permanently?&quot;<br><br>
  &quot;Yes. He told me that he hardly expected to return to this country  within ten years.&quot;<br><br>
  No more was said. A close observer would have been in considerable doubt  as to whether Helen had heard the few  sentences which passed between her sister and her brother-in-law.<br><br>
  But she did hear them, and they disturbed her more profoundly than  anything she had heard for years. As soon as she could retire, without  attracting attention, she did so, and withdrew to the seclusion of her own  room. &quot;What does this mean?&quot; Thus she spoke to herself, resolutely  laying her hand upon her bosom with a firm pressure, &quot;What is Edward Linton  to me, that the knowledge of his removal to another country gives me a quicker  heart-beat?&quot; She looked inward with a steady gaze. And what did she see?  Only the image of Edward   Linton! It must he an illusion.  She closed her eyes tightly, and then looked again. The image was more  distinct, and the eyes were gazing upon her with all the love and tenderness  that filled them, when he took her hand in his, years ago, and told her that  she was dearer to him than all the world. How beautiful was the countenance!  How full of manly dignity; of high honour; of pure sentiment! She gazed and  gazed upon it, and could not turn her eyes away.<br><br>
  From that time, there was a change in Helen,  visible to all eyes. The exterior of her life had habitually been very quiet  and unobtrusive. But with the spoken word, had always come a pleasant smile,  which lit up her face, and gave to it a peculiar sweetness. The first apparent  change in her was the&nbsp;<em>gradual fading of this smile</em>; the next, was the  frequent recurrence of fits of silence and abstraction, the causes of which,  when questioned, she never attempted to explain.<br><br>
  After the lapse of a year, signs of failing health became visible, to  the alarm of all her friends. Medical aid was sought; but the physician could  discover no organic disease, nor was he able, by means of any remedies he could  give, to change the condition of her system from one of ever increasing  prostration — to one of healthy vital action.<br><br>
  Steadily the&nbsp;<em>work of decline</em><em>&nbsp;</em>went on. At the end of the second year, she was little more than the  shadow of her former self. Change of scene and climate were now strongly urged  by the physician, as the only remaining hope; and after long persuasion, Helen  consented to accompany a brother-in-law and one of her sisters on a voyage  across the ocean, with the ultimate design of visiting, should strength permit,  France, Italy, and Switzerland. On arriving in London,  Helen was weaker than when she left America. The  physician who was called in, declared that her lungs were seriously affected,  and advised an immediate removal to the South of France. To Marseilles  the party went, in all haste; and there, in the land of the olive, the fig, and  the almond, on the shores of the blue Mediterranean,  where the atmosphere was genial and balmy, the wasted invalid for a brief  period took up her residence.</p>

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