New Orleans daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1851-1866, 1852-09-07
THE THREE SISTERS.

Which turns from cartll's deceitfui scenes
To dream Of Immortality .MBw
THE THREE SISTERS.
lcouclcsonl
CHAPTER H.
g.. of whom may seek for succor, but Of Thee
Lord. who for our sins art Justly dspleased - ' :
". earth to Garth. ashes ashes dust to dust in
and certain hope Of the Resurrection to eternal
- heard voice from heaven sayiue unto me- Write
From henceforth blessed the dead which die in The
Lord even saith the Spirit for they do their
labors."
1t was burial in village church yard. and
standing by an open grave there was one
mourner only, woman-Bertha Vaux. Alone,
in sadness and silence, with few tears-for she
was little used to weep--sbe stood and looked
upon her sisters funeral; stood and saw the
coffin lowered, and heard the first handful of
earth fall rattling on the coffin lid then turned
away, slowly, to seek her solitary house. The
few spectators thought her cold and heartless
perhaps If they could have raised that black
veil, they would have seen such sorrow in her
face as might have moved the hearts of most of
them.
The sun shone warmly over hill and vale tha
summers day, but Bertha Vaux shiyered MS
she stepped within the shadow of her lonely
house. 1t was so cold there; SO cold and damp
and dark, as if the shadow of that death that
had entered it was still lingering around. The
stunted evergreens. on which, since they first
grew, no sunlight had ever fallen, no single ray
of golden light to brighten their dark sad leaves
for years. looked gloomier, darker, sadder, than
they had ever looked before; the very house,
with its closed shutters-all closed except one
in the room where the dead had lain-seemed
mourning for the stern mistress it had lost. A
lonely woman now, lonely and sad was Bertha
Vaux.
She sat in the summer evening in her silent
cheerless room. 1t was SO very still, not even
a breath of wind to stir the trees; no voice Of
| living thing to break upon her solitude no
| sound even of a single footstep on the dusty
| road; but in the solitude that was around her.
countless thoughts seemed springing into life
things long forgotten; feelings long smothered
hopes once bright-bright as the opening of her
| life had been. that had been faded and buried
long ago.
She thought. of the time when she and her
sister, fifteen years ago, had come first to the
lonely house where now she was; of few years
| later-two or three-when another younger sis
ter had joined them there, and it seemed to
| Bertha, looking back, as if the house had some
times been filled with sunlight The dark room
in which she sat had once been lighted up-was
it with the light from Gabrielle's bright eyes
In these long, sad fifteen years, that little tint
stood outso clearly, so hopefully it brought th
solitude. And how had it ended2 For tel
years nearly, now-for ten long years-the nam
of Gabrielle had never been spoken in thai
house The light was gone-extinguished in q
moment, suddenly; darkness deeper than be.
fore had ever since fallen on the lonely house.
The thought of the years that had passed since
then--of their eventlessness and. weary sorrow
and then the thought of the last scene of all
that scene which still was like living presence
to ler-her sisters death
Joanna Vaux had been cold stern; and un-
forglyng to the last; meeting death unmoye,l :
repenting Of no hard thing that she had done
| throughout her sad, stern life, entering the
valley of the shadow of death fearlessly. But
that cold death-bed struck upon the hea rt of the
solitary woman who had watched beside it, and
| awakened thoughts and doubts there, Which
would not rest. She wept now as she thought
OF it, sadly and quietly, and some murmured
words burst from her lips, which sounded like a
prayer-not for herself only.
| Then from her sisters death bed she went
far, far back--to her own chillhooe--and n
| scene rose up before her; one that she had
closed her eyes on many time before, thinking
vainly that so she could crush it from her heart,
but now she did not try to force it back. The
| dark room where she sat, the gloomy sunless
house, seemed fading from her Sight; the long.
long years, with their weary train of shame and
sutfering-all were forgotten. She was in her
| old lost home again--the home where she was
born; she saw sunny lawn embowered with
trees, each tree familiar to her and remembered
well, and she herself happy child, was stand
ing there; and by her side--wth soft arms
twining round her, with tender voice, and gentle
loving eyes, and bright hair glittering in the
| sunlight-there was one!
| Oh, Bertha! hide thy face and weep. She
was so lovely and so loving, so good and true, SC
| patient and so tender, then. Oh how could ST
thou forget it all, and steel thy heart against
her, and vow the cruel VOW never to forgive he,
SIM Thy mother-thy own mother, Bertha
think Of it!
| A shadow fell across the window beside whicl
she sat, and through her binding tears Berth,
| looked up, and saw woman standing there
and holding by the hand little child. He
face was very pale and worn, with sunken eye
and checks; her dress was mean and poor. Sh
! looked haggard and weary, and weak and ill
but Bertha new that was Gabrielle come back
She could not speak, for such rush of Joy cam
to her softened heart that all words seemed swal
lowed up in it; such deep thankfulness for thu
forgiveness than seemed given her, that her frs
thought was not a welcome but prayer.
Gabrielle stood without, looking at her witt
her sad eyes.
"We are alone,' she said, "and very poor
will you take us in?"
Sobbing with pity and joy, Bertha rose from
her seat and hurried to the door. Trembling
she drew the wanderers in; then falling on hel
sisters neck, her whole heart melted, and she
cried, with gushing tears:
Gabrielle, dear sister Gabrielle, I, too, an
all alone!"
The tale that Gabrielle had to tell was full
enough of sadness. They had lived together
she and her mother, for about a year, very
peacefully, almost happily; and then the mother
died, and Gabrielle soon after married one who
had little to give her but his love. And aftei
that the years passed on with many cares ani
griefs--for they were very poor, and he no
strong-but with a great love ever between
them, which softened the pain of all they had tt
bear last, after being long i'll, he died ; anc
poor Gabrielle and her child were left to strug
gle on alone.
81 think 1 should have died. she said, as
weeping, she told her story to her sister. if i
had not been for my boy; and could so wei
have borne to die; but, Bertha, l could not leay
him to starve! 1t pierced my heart with pans
so bitter that can not speak of it, to see hi
little face grow daily paler; his little feebl
form become daily feebler and thinner; to watcl
the sad, unchildlike look fixing itself hourl,
deeper in his sweet eyes-so mournful, so un
complaining SO full of misery. The sight kille,
me day by day; and then at last, in my despair
l said to myself that / would come again to you