CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu, car il pleure. Vous qui souffrez, venez à lui, car il guerit. Vous qui tremblez, venez à lui, car il sourit. Vous qui passez, venez à lui, car il demeure."

ECRIT AU BAS D'UN CRUCIFIX.

The years that have passed since that night, have been long and strange years. At first they were too strange and hopeless and blank to be borne without repining; I knew but too well the curse that turns life into a burden and a dread, and makes the wretched soul cry in the morning, "would God, it were evening," and in the evening, "would God, it were morning!" I knew what it was to dread solitude, and yet to shrink from the reproach of any human face; to hate life, and yet to fear death; to know to the fullest the terrors of remorse and the bitterness of repentance.

I have passed through this howling wilderness, passed through it once and forever; it lies black and horrible behind me; when I look back, I cross myself and murmur a prayer; but beyond--thank God's good grace--lies a plain path; over it shines the steady star of faith, the cold, clear light of duty fills the sky, the still air breathes peace; the promise is faint of the life that now is, but of that which is to come, of the bliss that never tires, the joy that never ceases, the majesty of the Glory that fills the heaven beyond the dividing limit of that horizon, I can dream and hope, till the dream fills my soul to satisfaction, and the hope grows strong as life itself.

The daily routine of my life is easily described, and the occupations that served to soothe and sustain me will not take many words to paint. The refuge I had sought upon my flight from Rutledge, was not distant; Mr. Shenstone's compassion was the first I asked; he heard, fresh from its occurrence, the awful story of Victor's death, the not less awful story of his life. I needed no truer friend than he; and though it opened anew the recollection of his own early trial, I did not suffer from the association it awoke; he was only tenderer and kinder.

Mr. Rutledge regarded my request. Whether he suspected my retreat or not, I could not tell, but in the confusion and excitement that ensued upon the discovery of my flight, I have reason to believe he influenced the direction of the search that was instituted, and did not thwart the general idea, that I had fled to the city to rejoin Victor, who, it was soon learned, had not sailed when he had appointed. All was mystery and confusion, but this idea saved me from pursuit here, and gave something for suspicion to fasten and feed upon, and out of which to build up an effigy, to receive the maledictions and reproaches of the world. All this was less than indifferent to me; while they were searching for me with venom and wrath, and bemoaning my iniquities with dainty horror, and execrating my hypocrisy, and settling my fate, and clearing themselves forever of any further part or lot in me, I was much nearer the other world than this; so near indeed, that when after long weeks of hovering between this and the unseen, I gradually awoke to the knowledge that I was still to stay in life, I had so far lost my interest in it, that it gave me hardly a moment's concern to find that Mrs. Churchill had discovered my place of retreat, and had written in almost insulting language to Mr. Shenstone, forbidding my return to her, and casting me off forever. Mr. Shenstone seemed sadly distressed to communicate this to me; the languid smile with which I received it, reassured him.

"She could not have done me a greater favor, sir; she has saved me the trouble of saying that I would not return to her, and she knew it very well. She is glad to be rid of me, and hurried to spare her dignity the rebuff that she knew it would receive as soon as I was able to put pen to paper."

But there was a harder task to perform; my promise to Mr. Rutledge was yet unfulfilled. I understood from Mr. Shenstone that he had sailed for Havre a fortnight after I had left Rutledge, and I dared no longer delay my promised communication to him. A very brief and simple letter told him all that was necessary. In the course of the winter there came an answer to it, short but kind, with nothing wanting in consideration and interest, characteristic and manly, yet with a shade of formality and restraint, differing from all phases of our former intercourse; ever so slight a shade, it is true, but it made me put this his last letter away, with the same feeling that I think I should have had, if I had just turned away from my last look at him in his coffin. He was dead to _me_, at least.

Occasional letters, indeed, came from him to Mr. Shenstone, generally with some mention of my name; Mr. Shenstone always showed them to me; they brought back old times, and made me restless and vaguely sad for a day or two, then the _dead_ feeling would come back, and all would be the same as before. As time wore on, the letters grew almost imperceptibly shorter and less explicit; he was travelling--he was here--at such a time he should be there--such places pleased him--such spots were changed since his former visits; then would follow some general directions about the farm--remembrances to Mrs. Arnold and to me--kind inquiries into Mr. Shenstone's own health--renewed assurances of friendship--and so the letter would end.

Of my aunt's family I rarely heard. They went abroad the year after we parted; I saw occasionally by the papers their residence at Paris, or their journeying in Italy; and Grace's marriage with a Frenchman of good family came to my knowledge through the same means. Why Josephine still lingered unmarried I could only conjecture. Phil Arbuthnot returned to America after spending a year with them in Paris, and I believe has never rejoined them.

So much for these once prominent participators in my interest, and now of myself. In the home I had chosen I was soon as necessary as I was occupied; Mrs. Arnold saw life and usefulness receding from her now with less pain, that she saw one younger and stronger, able to take up the duties that she had reluctantly laid down. There was no chance for time to hang heavy on my hands; besides the occupations of the house, there were unnumbered calls upon my energies in the parish. Mr. Shenstone was no longer young, almost an old man now, and though his energy never flagged, his strength did, and I found many ways of relieving him, and inducing him to save himself and depend on me. I have no doubt he saw it was the kindest thing he could do for me, and so the more willingly yielded the duties to me. No one that sets himself or herself earnestly at work, with a sincere desire to do right, and to atone for the past, but will, sooner or later, feel the good effect of such effort; his languor will yield before the invigorating glow of exercise, his nerves will regain the tone they had lost, his pulse will beat with something of its old vigor; he will, though never again the same man, be once more a man, be free from the corroding melancholy that threatened to be his ruin, and be ready to look on life with steadier, wiser eyes than in his youth. Such reward work brings; no matter how plain and coarse and unattractive the work may be, no matter if, in itself, it has no interest and no charm, the will, the duty, the spirit in which it is done, will give it its interest and its charm, and will bring it its certain reward. Youth can hardly see this, misery cannot at first acknowledge it, but none ever faithfully and patiently tried it, without finding the truth of it.

There is a lonely grave in the very heart of the pine forest, unmarked by cross or stone, above which no prayers but mine have ever been said, which the dark moss covers thickly, and around which the trees sound their everlasting dirge. I have not learned to be tranquil there; years more of faith and prayer may take the sting out of that sorrow, and bring me to leave it utterly in His high hand who seeth not as man seeth. If prayer could avail, after the grave had shut her mouth upon any of the children of men, if fast and vigil, tears and penance, could mitigate the wrath decreed against them, I might hope, I might stand by that desolate mound with a less despairing heart. I have tried to realize that God's ways are not as our ways, that nothing is impossible with him, that His mercy is as incomprehensible as is His power; and that our puny prayers, however they may chasten and purify ourselves, are not needed, and not efficient in influencing His sentence on our brothers' souls.

There is enough to do among the living. "Let the dead Past bury its dead." There are souls yet unsentenced to be prayed for and to be gained, there are children to be brought to baptism and to be led aright, there are dark homes of poverty and sin to be invaded with the light of truth and love; there is doubt to be won to faith, ignorance to be enlightened, sluggish indolence to be roused, God's church to work for, His honor to be extended, our most holy faith to be spread and reverenced; there is no need to languish for want of work, or to waste tears and prayers upon that which is already in the hands of Almighty Love and Almighty Power.

Yes; I believe I was, through it all, happier than Mrs. Churchill, haggard and worn in a service whose nominal wages are pleasure and ease; and than Josephine, wasting her youth in the pursuit of an ambition that had rewarded her as yet by nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit. A gay hotel in Paris, and a secluded country parsonage--on the one hand wealth, the pleasures of society, the admiration of the world, on the other seclusion, the annihilation of every hope that had its root only in this earth, the love only of the poor, the aged and the suffering, yet I would not have exchanged their gaiety for my peace, their prosperity for my adversity.

"What should we do without you, child?" said Mr. Shenstone, kindly, one day as I was leaving him. "What should we do without these young eyes and this young zeal? I am afraid the village would begin to tire of its old pastor, and to fret about his old ways and his new negligences, if we had not this fresh enthusiast to throw herself into the breach, and to save both flock and pastor from discouragement and disgust. You have assimilated yourself strangely to those you have fallen among. Tell me truly, my dear child, are you never weary of this dull life--never tired of the companionship of two solitary, sad people, old and spiritless? We are apt to forget--you cheer and comfort us--we must depress and sadden you."

"You? Oh, Mr. Shenstone! You know to whom it is I owe it that I have conquered depression and sadness. You have done everything for me; may I do nothing for you? It is little enough, surely, but it is my greatest pleasure."

"If it is--then go," he said, with a sad smile on his wan, furrowed face. "Go and fulfill the duties that God has taken out of my hands, and I will try to be patient and stay at home in idleness. I will try to remember,

'They also serve who only stand and wait.'

But God knows, it is the hardest kind of service!"

Every day lately had been adding to his languor; I watched with anxious foreboding his slow step and altered tone. It was the twenty-fourth of December, and I knew that the contrast of his present inactivity at this holy season, to former diligence, must be a keen trial to him with his stern rules of duty. I left the house with a sigh, and went out into the clear, still air of the winter afternoon, with the energy of youth and earnestness in my veins, and thought, wonderingly, of the different grades of trials, the "anguish of all sizes" that God's elect must pass through,

"Till every pulse beat true to airs divine."

It must be hard, indeed, to "stand and wait," to feel that energy and strength are going before life goes, and that there is nothing left to do, only to endure. Such a trial, it seemed to me, would be the worst of all: as long as there is work there is a panacea, but take away that, and the burden grows intolerable. God spare me that! And I hurried on through my many duties with double thankfulness that they were so many.

The short winter afternoon was all too short for them--it was almost sundown when I started to cross the common on my return from a distant cottage. There was but one thing more to do to-night; the school-children were waiting for me to go into the church and practice their Christmas-hymn with them, and it was late already, so I quickened my pace. I found my young pupils waiting for me around the gate of the churchyard; they hailed me with acclamations, and clustering round my skirts, followed me into the church. They were too well taught to continue their chattering there, even if they had been unrestrained by my presence, but I could not but believe the scene must have struck them with some reverence, thoughtless and trifling though too many of them were. The lowering sun streamed in through the stained glass of the western windows, and lit up gorgeously the sombre church, illuminating the joyful Christmas words above the altar, touching cross and star and tablet with soft light, and laying rich and warm upon the glossy wreaths that were twined round font and chancel, desk and pillar. Coming from the cold air and wintry landscape, into such a mellow, warm, green sanctuary, where there seemed no winter and no chill, I could understand the feeling that checked the children's mirth so suddenly, and made them look wistfully and silently around; and when their sweet, young voices followed mine in the Christmas-hymn, and when the organ yielded its full tones to my touch, arch and rafter, pavement and aisle seemed to stretch away into infinity; the light that filled the church was the glory of heaven; the sweet music, the voices of the angels; and time and earth seemed to fade and recede, and floating down that path of glory, I could almost have touched the open gates of heaven--almost have mingled in the white-robed throng within. The chains of sin and sense fall off--the sounds of warfare die away--the terrors of the conflict with the hosts of hell are all forgotten; if one's soul could follow in the wake of one's longing at such a moment as this, death would indeed be conquered--the king of terrors be cheated of his prey.

The glory had faded from the west, and dullness and gloom had crept into the church before the young choir dispersed. It seemed as if the very spirit of music had possessed the children; hymn after hymn, anthem and carol, and never tired or flagging. As at last I rose to go, and bent forward to shut the organ, one of them whispered eagerly:

"There's somebody been below there in the church! I hear steps going down the aisle; and hark! The door just opened and shut again."

"No matter," I said, a little startled. "Some one has heard the music, and come in to listen. Follow me quietly, children: it is almost dark; we have stayed too late."

The little group separated at the church door; bidding them good-night, and taking by the hand the child whose way lay partly with mine going home, I took the path toward the village. It gave me, I confess, a little uneasiness to see how faint the daylight was, and the conjecture--who could have been in the church so long and so silent, recurred again and again uncomfortably. It was too late to trust little Rosy to go home alone, so, though it took me a full half mile beyond my own road, I kept on with her; and beguiling her with a Christmas story as we went, soon succeeded in forgetting foolish fears, _malgré_ the twilight and the lonesome road. At last we reached the little gate of Rosy's home, and stooping to kiss her as I left her at it, I was turning away, when a carriage drove quickly past toward Brandon. It was a strange carriage, and it gave me a sort of start; I could not quite recover my composure for some minutes; but then strangers came so seldom through the village at this season, it was not very wonderful after all that I had been startled. However, I reflected, it was not improbably some one on the way from northward, detained by the freezing of the river, and hurrying on to catch the evening train from Brandon; and with that, dismissed the subject from my mind.

When I reached home, I hurried into the study, anxious to explain to Mr. Shenstone the cause of my long absence, and to make amends for it by enlivening his evening. I found him alone; Mrs. Arnold had not been able to leave her room for several days, and the study was in darkness, and tea had not been thought of.

"Why, how dismal you look, sir!" I exclaimed, as I came in. "I beg you will excuse my staying till this hour; but the children were so in love with their own voices, that I could not get them away; and that little gipsy of a Rosy had to be escorted all the way home. Kitty should have brought you lights, sir; shall I ring?"

"No, not just yet; I am in no hurry. Sit down; are you not tired? I have wondered at your being so late. You have missed a visitor."

"A visitor? No! Why, who?"

"One whom I little expected to see, and much less expected to have had so short a visit from. I confess it has quite startled and unsettled me, seeing him so unexpectedly and for such a moment. But he could not stay over night, and the Brandon train leaves at half-past six, he says. He was sorry you were away."

"Mr. Rutledge has been here?"

"Yes."

"And gone?"

"And gone."