Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

hills and far away, to pay certain annual greetings that were a part of the regular programme of an Edendale House Christmas-eve.

But my proof once corrected and posted, all was right; and then Katie ran in to claim my assistance in the decoration of the church, where she, and Mary, and Elizabeth, and the brothers, were already busy with holly, and yew, and laurel, and, as she assured me, "the finest branches of cedar that were ever gathered." I went with her, nothing loth; and, till darkness fell, we were busy enough wreathing the old pillars and the decayed chancel-screen, and weaving garlands for the tombs of the haughty earls of Eden, some of whom, in carven panoply, lay in effigy within the altar-rails.

When it was quite dusk Mrs. Wilberforce came in to summon us home she feared the chilly air of the church might not be very good for some of us; but we had caused one stove to be lighted, and there was little fear of any of us taking cold, so warm we were with bustle and exercise and every description of extra clothing. It was too dark to see the result of our labours, but Mrs. Wilberforce volunteered to play us Handel's "Pastoral Symphony" if someone would take charge of the bellows. Of course the three sons at once sprang forward to officiate, and we girls remained below round the stove, while the sweet tones of the organ floated through the dim aisles in strains of heavenly harmony.

"One more, mamma, if you are not cold," was the unanimous appeal from below. "Give us your favourite 'Gloria.'

[ocr errors]

Ah! how well I remember that scene, that hour!-the ancient minster-like church, its pillared aisles and lofty nave lost in shadow; the ruddy firelight from the open stove falling full upon the once magnificent but now shattered rood-screen, and on the solemn tombs beneath the dark-browed chancel. There were tapers at the organ key-board, and someone "had produced a match promiscuously," as Charlie informed us afterwards, and lighted them, and their faint beams shone down into the body of the shadowy church. And, listening to the triumphant bursts of the "Gloria in Excelsis," and then to the simple, solemn strains of Mozart's noblest "Agnus Dei," I wondered what it would be to hear that song that is as the sound of many waters," which the countless multitude of the redeemed sing ever before the throne of God.

Ah! if He whose birth we were about on the morrow to celebrate, had not come to earth, and taken upon Himself our nature-if He had not lived for us, suffered for us, died for us, never had that song been heard in heaven-the voices of "ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands" saying, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing."

And of those who were gathered round me on that Christmas-eve,

how many remain on earth? Some are still here, doing worthily their work in the world, and pressing on with stedfast face and heart to "the city which hath foundations." But some are mingling now their voices with "the angel's song :" the mother, so beloved, revered, esteemed, has gone home to the land where there is no more death or sorrow; two of her sons sleep in a foreign land-or rather, I should say, that southern seas hold one till the mighty deep shall restore her dead on the great day of the restitution of all things; and another is laid to rest beneath the burning skies of India-the devoted missionary, called early to quit the cross and wear the crown, and bear the palm of the saints of the church above. And the lovely Rosamund, too, is gone-" a flower cut down in June "—and with her went her little baby-daughter-a blossom, nay, a tiny bud, whose leaves were never to unfold, save in the Paradise of God. Happy little babe! taken from a world of sin to its heavenly home, with scarce one hour's experience of mortality's mixed cup of sweets and bitters! Yes; now, when I keep my Christmas-day, I think of those dear ones, and of others passed away-" gone before" me to the world of light and glory. Ah, well! time glides away: year after year passes into the vast eternity; and the hour will come when the broken circle shall be one again; when there will be no vacant places at the board-no empty chair beside the hearth-no beloved voices silent in the hymn; but all gathered together with love-lit eyes, and hearts and lips attuned to perfect praise; and not one shade of care or pain to mar the joy and peace of that immortal life: for He, by whom they came to God-He who led them all the desert through, and brought them to the glorious courts of Jerusalem the Golden-said, on the eve of His own departure, "Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given me, be with me where I am."

It was rather late before we left the church, and, Mrs. Wilberforce coming down to the stove to warm her fingers, we had a little talk together. "Evelyn," she said, "do you remember the day you ascended Durstone Pike ?"

Ah! well I remembered it, and I replied, "that it was one of those days in my life which could never be forgotten."

"Have you not found," continued Mrs. Wilberforce, "that it was better not to try to forget, but rather to make the remembrance of your trial a source of spiritual and mental profit? Are you not happier since you ceased to struggle and repine; and, above all, since you resumed your work, and became a diligent labourer in other fields than those of literature ?"

"Far happier at least more content. Since that day I have been trying to leave everything in God's hands; and, by His grace, I have not tried in vain. And, oh! Mrs. Wilberforce, how right you were about diligence in business! I am convinced that, next to waiting upon God, and laying one's burden on Him, diligent, unceasing,

earnest work is the best remedy for any distress of mind: it is certainly one of the means whereby we may renew our strength, and gather patience and wisdom for the life that is before us."

"Evelyn, when you came back to Kirby-Edendale you would willingly have died ?"

"Indeed I would. I am not certain but that I should be quite willing now to lay down the life that God prolongs."

"I did not quite mean that: we should all be willing to go when God calls; but it is not our place to choose the time of going we are not to say at any time, let me die.' When our work is done, then we shall go home, not before."

"But some people seem to have no work at all; neither do they care to have any."

"My child, everybody, to the veriest loiterer, does his work; but there is evil work as well as good work: one may go into the vineyard and sow thistles and plant briars, instead of dressing the vines. Do you remember the lines in 'school-time' that so forcibly struck Agnes the other day?

"Unread the ciphered page may be;

But all the children write

The whole blank page unconsciously
From morning until night.'

And so it is: we cannot live without doing good or evil; in some way or other our influence must tell on those around us."

"I think one mistake I made was, in some sort, to confuse apathy with resignation. I did not think I was doing so very far from it; but nothing is easier than to deceive one's self with a specious show of good resolutions. Thank God, who showed me my error!"

"Perhaps your very failures did you good?"

"I am sure they did; they revealed to me how feeble and foolish a creature Evelyn Charteris was! I meant, when first my sorrow came, to be so wise, and calm, and resolute. I think I intended to be sublime. Now I am content, if God will only, day by day, give me faith, and keep my heart stayed upon Him, and strengthen me, and give me ability to perform the work He would have me to do."

"And in such contentment all will be well with you. I read the other day, the holy life is not a living only within ourselves, and so keeping calm, because nothing external affects us-that becomes in the end mere stagnation. No; it must be a mingling of our lives with those of others, yet keeping our souls quiet, because of their possession of perfect patience.'"

Our Christmas-day was bright and cheery; the frost was hard, and every branch and spray glittered with its jewelled sheen in the clear winter sunshine, which streamed into the old church through the manycoloured casements in the chancel and the south aisle, lighting up the

antique altar-tombs, and the worm-eaten oaken stalls, and the pale effigies in the little dim "chapelle " that was the pride and glory of the ancient, time-honoured pile of Kirby-Edendale. I could not but recal the last Christmas-day, however: then I was at Abbeylands, gazing out on the rapid river, and on the towers and spires of the great city of Easthambury on the other side of the water; and then poor Clement Mannering came back again; and as I thought of his return I seemed to be once more in the half-lighted library in Miss Capel's house, hearing the soft tones of his voice, and catching ever and anon the light that beamed in his blue, lustrous eyes. For nine months now he had been sleeping in his quiet grave. Ah, Clement, Clement! if through me you suffered, well were you avenged!

Three days after Christmas-day the snow began to fall, and mutely and softly it fell day and night from the beautiful grey clouds that stretched from the horizon to the zenith, till mountains, fields, churchyard, and everything else was robed in pure white garments, that made them look more fair and lovely than I had ever seen them before. And for several weeks the beautiful, undefiled snow lay like a shroud on the face of the quiet earth; and sometimes we went out at sunset to see the moors in their dazzling purity, with the last red daybeam striking like bronze on the huge black pines, that waved like funeral plumes on the white and billowy plain; or, better still, to watch the snow on the mountain peaks catch the pinky glow that was flushing all the west, and then deepen into changing violet hues, and lastly mingle itself with the golden clouds of evening, till one might fancy that one beheld the very Mount of Transfiguration itself—either that, or the far-off ramparts of the Eternal City of God! Till you have spent a winter at the foot of the solemn mountains you know not half their grandeur or half their celestial beauty.

But February was coming, and early in February I was going to London. The time flew swiftly, for I had much to do; and as the day drew near I felt as if I were going out into exile once more. Katie sat with me nearly always, helping me in the needful preparations of my wardrobe, and talking over a thousand subjects that seemed to present themselves for discussion now that we were about to part. But the last Sunday came, and I sat for the last time in the familiar, square pew, listening to the twenty-second edition of the vicar's celebrated sermon on "The Building of the Ark," and joining, or trying to join, only my heart was too full, in the hymn and the chant, as they rang through the arched aisles of that dear old church, where I had worshipped now, Sunday after Sunday, for nearly eight peaceful months. And the next day I was busy packing, and the next was to find me on my journey southwards. We were all very sad that last evening; when bedtime came we lingered round the hearth till the small hours began to strike, loth to part; for with the early morning my travel

commenced. At length, Mrs. Wilberforce, remarking that I needed rest, broke up the party, and tearfully and tenderly we bade each other good-night. Never again was the circle that gathered so lovingly by that fireside to be complete. When next I came to Kirby-Edendale there were changes in the happy household-some were in other lands, and one in her quiet grave, under the shadow of the sycamores, at the eastern angle of the churchyard.

Next morning farewells were said once more; I and these dear friends went our separate ways, and the last thing I saw that seemed to belong to Kirby-Edendale was the rosy snow on Durstone Pikefor as yet the sun had not risen far above the horizon. I was obliged to commence my journey thus early in order to catch, at Penmount, the train by which I intended to travel as far southward as my old place of residence-Blackingham.

CHAPTER XI.

A NEW WORLD.

I REACHED Penmount in time for the train, and was soon flying at express speed through the deep cuttings of the hills, and along dizzy embankments high above the nestling valley below, to the grim districts, where all the country lay stretched out in one huge plain, diversified here and there with tall smoking chimneys, many-windowed buildings and ugly shafts with cranks and pulleys rising up like gaunt spectres against the now hazy sky of the February morning. About one o'clock we came to the junction where a traveller to Easthambnry must change lines; and staying there some time waiting the arrival of another train, I looked out across the flat, unlovely landscape to the dull horizon, where I was sure Easthambury must be. So near, and yet not to see one friend from that fair and well-beloved city; so near, and yet to go on miles and miles away, further than ever from those whom I longed so earnestly and vainly to behold, if only for one brief hour!

The day had nearly closed in when we reached the Blackingham station; the lamps were already lighted, and our last hour's journey had been through a country that gave me an excellent idea of the nether regions of the ancient poets. There was as much bustle at the Blackingham station as when I first approached it six years before; but I was now an experienced traveller, and knew what to do, and what to leave undone, and how to deal with porters and cabmen, and I felt as calm and self-possessed when I stepped into the midst of a not over courteous crowd as when I was standing, respectfully attended by officials, on the quiet little platform whence I had that morning started.

I had arranged to spend one night in Blackingham; I had no love for the ugly, smoky, brick-built town; but I had a curiosity to see it

VOL. VIL-NEW SERIES.

« FöregåendeFortsätt »