CHAPTER XXXII.

THE FLIGHT FROM THE HEADLAND.

“Overlive it?—lower yet—be happy? —wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, Lest I wither by despair!”—_Tennyson._

Estelle had been too strong to die.

With the skillful attention of the village physician, the devoted care of her faithful servant, and the fervent prayers of the parish minister, she had recovered from her long and dangerous illness.

The first use she made of her convalescence was to abandon the Headland House.

Since the first exciting visit of Lord Montressor to the place, the scene had become insufferable to her. To fly from it, or to lose her reason seemed the only alternative.

Ah! it is a comparatively easy thing, in some exalted mood of mind, to make a supreme offering of affection to the shrine of duty—as easy as self-slaughter is, if that were required! for the wrench of parting, like the throws of death, is but a short agony! But such voluntary immolation is not self-slaughter, it is more, it is the self-inhumation of the living! The heart thus cut off from the love which is its life, does not find the peace of death but the dull anguish of the living tomb—it cannot die, but continues to throb, to yearn and to suffer. Thus the TEST is not in the fierce struggle with temptation and the keen pangs of sacrifice, but in the terrible reaction; in the dull gnawing pain of all the after time; in the aching sense of bereavement, loneliness and utter desolation; in the long succession of dreary, weary days that dawn without hope, and decline without comfort—each an added link to the heavy chain of hapless years, that drag the spirit to the dust; years of slow heart-wasting; years of death in life!

Estelle had thought, when she had severed herself from her lover, that the struggle and the agony was over and the victory won. And after the torture of the criminal trial, and the pitiless battery of myriad eyes that had fallen upon her defenseless head, and after the moral warfare between her deep affections and her high sense of duty,—after all the tempestuous, thronged, and trying scenes through which she had been dragged,—worn out in frame and exhausted in spirit, _rest_ had seemed welcome and _solitude_ inviting. She had sighed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade.”

She had sought and found in the Headland such a retreat. The very desolation and dreariness of the locality had attracted her. The solitary gloom of the dark pine woods, the sterile brow of the bank, and the lonely waste of waters accorded well with her soul’s sadness. The melancholy days of Autumn—“the saddest in the year;” the incessant weeping of the skies; the unceasing wailing of the wind; the perpetual sighing of the trees for their ever falling leaves; the monotonous moaning of the sea;—all harmonized with the dirge-like, mournful music of her own spirit.

But this mood was in itself, morbid and temporary. It would not have lasted, even had Lord Montressor never arrived at the Headland to break it up.

Unsuspecting her presence at the house, he had appeared. Unseen by him, she had watched him from her window. Stifling the mighty hunger of her heart, she had suffered him to depart.

And then had come the crisis of the fever.

After her recovery—to remain upon that spot associated with the memory of his short and sad visit; in that house so void, so lonely, so cheerless; without a companion, without an occupation; without an interest in life; to rise each morning without object; to lie down each night without sleep; to put away day after day, week after week, month after month, the longing desire to hear from him, to write to him, to go after him; to continue such a life and not go mad, was difficult—was impossible.

To save herself from this last worst evil, she resolved to shut up the house and leave the Headland; to go—somewhere, anywhere, she knew not, cared not,—whither!

If her journey should only afford her change of scene, and distraction from one clinging grief—that would be enough.

At this extremity of need, when she was scarcely competent to the conducting of her own course, providence sent her unhoped for aid and advice.

This came in the form of old Mr. Goodloe, the parish clergyman, who had visited, pitied, and prayed for her during her severe illness.

The Reverend Barnabas Goodloe, was not a man of any great depth of feeling, breadth of intellect, or extent of experience. But he had passed the greater portion of a long life, in performing the quiet duties of a country clergyman. For forty years he had preached simple sermons to a rustic congregation; had married young men and maidens; christened children; buried the dead; counseled the living; comforted the afflicted; visited the sick; and relieved the poor of the parish of Eastville. But in all his life, so interesting an object as Estelle had never crossed his path. In his capacity of clergyman, he had been called to her bedside to pray for her recovery, by Susan Copsewood, who had a great and saving faith in “the effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man,” and who ascribed her beloved lady’s restoration to health, not so much to the skill of the physician, as to the petitions of the pastor.

But Mr. Goodloe could not forget the sweet pale face, and deep, soft tones, and gentle manners of the beautiful sufferer, in whom at the very first sight, he had felt so keen an interest. And though she did not belong to his congregation, and had not once appeared in his church, nor yet had, in thanking him for his attention, invited him to call again; despite his dread of being considered intrusive, he felt irresistibly impelled to pay her a visit.

Estelle received him with the gentle courtesy for which she was distinguished, again thanked him for his kind attentions during her illness; and afterward on receiving his adieu requested him to come again. Probably her first omission of this civility had been unintentional. At least so reasoned the aged minister, who soon repeated his visit to Estelle, between whom and himself a mutual esteem arose.

On one of these visits, after contemplating her despairing but most lovely face, and noticing that it grew visibly thinner, paler, and more shadowy, he took her slender hand and said:—

“My child, I would not for the world seek to intrude upon your confidence; but your countenance too plainly betrays that you are the victim of some deep, consuming, almost incurable grief. Whatever that grief may be—and I do not seek to know—this dreary scene and lonely life is not the way to wrestle with it successfully; for it is overcoming you—you are dying under it.”

“Were that all, indeed, that were well!” replied the lady mournfully.

“Not so, my child; for life has duties. You have no right to drop the burden of existence; we must all first earn the Heavenly rest. You are not a native of this place, lady; for you there is no healing in these solitary scenes; you must arise and go hence; you have means; go into the crowded city; seek out the unfortunate with which the lanes and alleys are thronged—find the lost men, the wretched women, and destitute children; forget your own, in ministering to their greater sorrows.”

“‘Greater sorrows’, good Heavens!” echoed Estelle, in mournful incredulity.

“Yes! _greater_ sorrows! however great yours may be—I repeat that there are many, very many who all their mortal lives labor under greater sorrows. You—whatever your grief may be—have youth, health, beauty, intellect, education, competence, a conscience void of offense, and, above all, you are not ‘without God in the world.’ Your single sorrow is a disappointment, or a bereavement. That is all you probably have to suffer. But for many others,—to disappointment, and to bereavement, is added age, illness, famine, cold, squalor, the evils of ignorance, the remorse of guilt,—and under all the horrors of a practical atheism! Behold! I have given you a glimpse of an existing Gehenna, of which you had never heard or dreamed; but to which you will go as a ministering, and redeeming angel.”

Estelle was deeply moved; pale and breathless she arose and placing her hand in that of the pastor, murmured faintly: “That is my work. I thank you for indicating it. I will go.”

He laid his hand on her head—

“Go! an unprofessed sister of charity, among the poor, the ignorant, the sick, and the prisoners. Go! hand-maiden of the Man of Sorrows, follow Him in works of mercy, and He will give you His ‘peace—not as the world giveth will He give it you.’ And so God bless you!”

And the good old man departed.

And she did not sink again into the bathos of a self-indulgent sorrow. She went to work and prepared for her mission. She set her house in order; visited the quarters of her humble friends, the old negro couple, and added many substantial comforts to their cabin. She wrote a letter of adieu to her landlady, Barbara Brande, and committed it to the care of her attorney to be delivered. Then she closed her house, left the keys, for the convenience of the proprietor, with old Neptune, took leave of her few lowly acquaintances, and, accompanied by her devoted attendant, departed without leaving behind any clue to her destination.