to discover how much he could endure. Montier felt that he was not fit for family deliberation now, and wisely made his escape from it.
"I know," said Pauline, when she and her child were left together, "I know why it is the best thing in the world for you to go on this voyage,—but—I do not know how you came by the sudden wish to go, —or if it is sudden, Elizabeth."
No demand,—no confidence required,—not a request, even, to enter into any secret counsel with her child. But that child saw the relation in which she stood to the loving woman by her side, whose eyes were gazing into her eyes, whose love was seeking to fathom her heart, and she answered humbly, and with confidence,—
"I am going to your old home, my mother,—and to see if it is true that Manuel is to die here in this abhorred prison. It is my secret, —it is my errand. I trust you, for you love me; oh, love me, my mother, and trust me! I dare not live, I cannot endure my freedom, while he is wearing out his life in a prison. Am I ill? Has it worn me to see him, this year past, dying by inches? I am glad of it,—I am proud of it! Now I will see if there is any pity or justice among rulers."
Pauline Montier was confounded by this outbreak. She had expected no such word as this she heard. It terrified her, for she was a loving woman, and she thought she heard in the voice of her daughter the voice of a woman who loved,—the impassioned, daring voice of one whom love incited to action such as sober reason never would attempt. She repented already the words she had spoken to her husband. She had no power then, could not prevail then, or the misgivings which sent Adolphus weeping into the wood, and not in search of doctor or colonel, would have drawn him back to her side, and against their love and their authority this girl had not prevailed. A question trembled on her lips. But how should she ask it of her child? She could not ask it of her child,—but as woman of woman. The simplest and the shortest speech was best; and far away were curiosity and authority.
"Elizabeth, do you love this prisoner?"
The answer did not linger.
"He is dying,—a noble man perishing unrighteously! Oh, my mother, in that land there is a lady waiting to know why the arm of the Lord so long delays! He shall not die a prisoner! She loves him,—he loves her. I will give them to each other. Only keep him alive till I come."
"My child!"
"Why do you weep?"—but Elizabeth, so speaking, bowed to the floor by her mother's side, and wept with her, and the tender arms maternal clasped her close; and the girl did not see when her mother's eyes looked upward, nor did she hear when her mother's voice said, with a saint's entreaty, and a lover's faith, "O Saviour!"
That night Elizabeth went for the tray which her father had left in the prisoner's room when he carried him his supper. No danger that Adolphus would stand to gossip now with any man, for a moment. His heart was sore at the prospect of his daughter's departure, at the prospect of actual separation, every feature of which state of being he distinctly anticipated; and yet he would have scorned himself, had he thrown in the way anything like the shadow of an impediment to her departure from Foray. So far from that, he was already doing everything, in act and thought, by which that going might be made more certain and immediate.
Elizabeth found the prisoner sitting before his untasted supper. She went up the room at a rapid pace.
"Strength does not come of fasting," said she, as she glanced at the table.
"Appetite does not come of torpor," was the reply, spoken almost as quickly; he seemed to be echoing her tone. She looked at him surprised; so much energy of speech she had not expected of him, and never before had heard.
"I must wait for the tray," said she; and she took her usual stand by the window. "Eat something to please my mother,—she will be so troubled."
At this he took his spoon and tasted the porridge, which had grown cold in the dish before him.
Now, as she stood there waiting, a curious state of mind was that through which Elizabeth passed. When he answered her greeting, it was with less apparent weariness, less exhibition of sad indifference to all things, than usual,—with some animation, indeed; not at all as one speaks who is dead to every hope. And with this utterance, which on any other day would have lightened the burden Elizabeth bore, a new darkening of the spirit of heaviness seemed to fall upon her. She knew that by her he must have come to—whatever hopefulness he had; and she would give him freedom that she might see his face no more!
"There is no crucifixion without pain." It is never with a light heart that man or woman attends his or her own immolation. There is awful terror in the triumphs of the divine human nature. If, indeed, Suttee is noiseless, superstition and force have stifled the voice of the widow.
And therefore the words which Elizabeth only by an effort restrained, as she crossed the prison-threshold, could come from her now by effort only. If she had found him drooping, despairing, utterly cast down,—no hinderance then to a full utterance of the heroic purpose which death alone could dampen or defeat! But now some strength seemed in himself—and liberty would give him to others, of whom he could not think as quietly as he could think of her. Could she, then, better afford to weep than to rejoice with him?
Before he had pushed away the table and its contents, before time constrained her to speak, she said,—
"I promised you something, Mr. Manuel. You remember what. I may go tomorrow. So tell me,—how shall I serve you best? Tell me now; something may happen; and I wish my work to be clear."
The prisoner started from the table at these words. He hastily approached the quiet speaker, his face brightened not more by hope than by wondering admiration.
"What do you mean?—tomorrow? I am waiting, Elizabeth."
"Colonel Farel and his lady are going home. He has leave of absence. I have spoken to my father and mother. I have told my mother everything. She knows that I am going to visit your relations as well as hers. Tell me how I shall find them. Tell me what I must do. You shall have freedom, if woman can ask or man can give it."
She had advanced a single step towards him, in thus speaking. She stood now with hands folded, quiet, waiting his answer.
"Noble girl!" he began; then he paused. Full of reverence was his gaze.
"Do not praise,—direct me," she said, hurriedly. "I know what I shall say. But to whom shall I say it?—Yes, I will find her whom you love. I will carry balm across the sea to heal her breaking heart. I will join together whom,"—here for an instant she hesitated, then began again,—"whom God has joined, whom man dared separate. Direct me, Sir."
And there she stood, waiting. Who sighing beholds her? No pusillanimity there; but on the very heights of danger, which none other than the bravest could have gained, dauntless and safe, let her stand and fight her battle. So strong, yet so defenceless, so conspicuous for purpose and position there, the arrows rain upon her, —yet not one is poisoned to the power of hurting her sacred life. Listen, Elizabeth, while he speaks of her! Deeply can his voice grave every word of direction; not one wilt thou lose! Chosen of the few from among the many called, go, woman to love, and hero to endure, —yea, if thou must, as gentle and dauntless martyr, to die before the stronghold thou wouldst summon to surrender!
Later in the day the prisoner heard Elizabeth singing, as not rarely he heard her,—for, knowing that the sound of her voice was pleasant to him, and that its cheerfulness cheered him, she had the habit of frequenting with her songs that part of the house in which his room was. The prisoner heard her singing later in the day, and thanked her for the grace, but did not catch the words whose sound swept past him. It was an ancient hymn she sang,—one that she often sang; and
