A FAREWELL TO OLD FRIENDS.
On quitting Fairmount, to return home, the reader will recollect that I left Mrs. Orme to remain for a short time longer at Rockhill, as Mrs. Lewellin felt much depressed in spirits by her father's death, and required the presence of a cheerful and affectionate friend to enable her gradually to dispel her grief, and regain her wonted interest in her ordinary domestic employments. Mrs. Orme's stay was protracted much longer than she originally intended, and the close of the year had nearly arrived before her kind friends would allow her to depart. During the period of her sojourn at Rockhill, she had gained many friends, who were attracted as much by the unsophisticated kindness and liveliness of her disposition as by her painfully interesting and romantic history. Among others, none formed a greater intimacy than Miss Ryder, who, with her brother, was now a frequent visitor at Rockhill and Fairmount. Mrs. Orme was invited to spend a few days at Aston, where she found herself exceedingly happy in the cheerful society of her new friend Anna, and the hearty hospitality of her brother, who was led to take a deep interest in his guest from the fancied resemblance which she bore to Matilda Denham, the departed object of his youthful affections. On taking leave of Mr. and Miss Ryder, Mrs. Orme made the latter promise that she would pay her a visit in the course of the ensuing summer, at the Elms, as Anna generally went to London once a-year to visit an elder sister, who had been married and settled there for some years.
About two months after Mrs. Orme's departure from Rockhill, Mr. Ingleby died, as narrated in a foregoing chapter, and was shortly followed to the grave by Mr. Cole, the Sector of the parish in which Mr. and Miss Ryder resided. The reader is already aware of the remarkable religious revolution which now took place in Aston and the adjoining parish of Broadhurst, though of a very lamentable description in the latter place. In the course of the same spring, Mrs. Orme received intelligence of her husband's death, an event which naturally excited painful emotions in her breast, though, considering his past conduct, her grief for his loss could neither be very deep nor poignant. Her little boy was now nearly two years old, a lovely child both in appearance and disposition, and an immense favourite with his grandfather, who had insisted on his mother leaving him at the Elms when she went to visit her friends in the west of England.
On hearing of Captain Orme's death, Miss Ryder judged it best to defer her visit to the Elms; and consequently it was not till the following year that she had again the pleasure of renewing her friendship with Mrs. Orme, and thus becoming acquainted with the other members of her family. Nothing could exceed the kind attention paid her by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who felt grateful for the kindness she had shown to Emma while at Aston. They insisted on her remaining for a considerable period with them, and also that Mr. Ryder should pay a visit to the Elms, and take his sister home.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had been much pleased with Miss Ryder, and also with her brother when he arrived at the Elms. The happy change, too, in his religious character, which had now taken place, led to a strong congeniality of feeling in the intercourse between him and his worthy host and hostess. Many a delightful excursion was taken by the family in company with their guests; a feeling of happiness pervaded every member of the household; and for the first time since the death of Louisa, the family regained their former liveliness and buoyancy of spirits. It was noticed, however, that on all occasions Mr. Ryder contrived to secure the company of Mrs. Orme to himself, both in the family excursions or when at home at the Elms. Various excuses were invented to favour their being by themselves, without awakening suspicion, which frequently excited a smile, and sometimes a good-humoured sarcasm from her sister Jane.
"Dear, dear," said Mrs. Orme, "I left a small needle-case in the alcove where we were sitting last evening."
"I will run, Emma, and fetch it."
"By no means, dear Jane, I won't trouble you; I can very readily put my hand upon it."
Mr. Ryder of course accompanied her to the alcove—a sweet retired spot; and then they extended their walk to a Roman camp, at a few miles' distance—contriving to be back in time to dress for dinner. On the following morning, Mr. Ryder, knowing that Miss Jane was under a special engagement to meet an old friend, said at the breakfast table, "I should like to take an excursion to town to-day, if you young ladies will accompany me."
"I believe, Sir," said the facetious Jane, with an arch look and significant nod and smile, "you know that I cannot go, which possibly may make the excursion the more agreeable."
The carriage was ordered out; the excursion was taken; and an apology was in readiness to be offered on their return for the lateness of the hour. These, and many similar indications of a mutual attachment, were too obvious to elude the notice of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and therefore it excited no astonishment when Mr. Ryder, one morning, with Mrs. Orme leaning on his arm, entered Mr. Holmes' study, and requested his consent to their union. The old man was so much delighted by this somewhat anticipated request, that without hesitation, he replied, "I will most cheerfully give it; and may the Lord bless you." At this moment Mrs. Holmes entered the room, and joyfully expressed her concurrence in the proposed match, which had already received the sanction of her husband.
After all the preliminaries were duly adjusted the wedding took place; and the ceremony was conducted by the Dissenting clergyman whom Mr. and Mrs. Holmes attended, and whose ministrations had proved so great a source of consolation to Louisa, on the last occasion that she was able to go to chapel.[43] In accordance with the feelings, however, both of the bride and bridegroom, it was resolved that there should be no public display or large assemblage of guests, and that none but the most intimate friends on both sides should be invited. The marriage was consequently a very quiet proceeding; but though unattended by the public acclamations which greeted that of Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin, it was nevertheless quite as happy a one, both at the time of its celebration and in its results.
On the ceremony being completed, the married couple started for a tour of a few weeks on the Continent, proceeding by Antwerp and Brussels to the Rhine, thence passing through Switzerland to Geneva, and then returning home through France, by Lyons and Paris. On arriving at Southampton, to which they had crossed from Dieppe, they proceeded on their journey to the west of England, and in the course of a day or two arrived at Aston, where Miss Ryder had everything ready for their reception. And now the reader may suppose that as I have so satisfactorily disposed of Mrs. Orme, there remains nothing more to be said of their friends at the Elms; but I have not yet quite done with the family of the Holmes.
When a professor of religion renounces his faith, and goes off into the world, we usually see, as in the case of Mr. Beaufoy,[44] a most melancholy change in his character and in his habits. The man of sobriety often becomes intemperate; the man of unsullied moral character sometimes becomes a libertine; the habits of domestic virtue and religion are broken up, and all is desolation and misery. But when a sceptic embraces the faith of Christ, the moral and social change is equally conspicuous; and it invariably proves a personal and a relative blessing. Of this, a striking exemplification occurs in the history of Mr. Gordon, Mr. Lewellin's early friend. After he felt the renewing power of the grace of God, the old things of evil, to which he had long addicted himself, passed away, and he became a new creature in Christ Jesus—an essentially different man, in taste, in principle, and in social habits. He proved the genuineness of his conversion by the integrity and consistency of his conduct in all the subsequent stages of his career. In a letter which I received from him, some months after he had passed from death to life, he said, "Though I cannot doubt the reality of my spiritual renovation, and am compelled to ascribe it to the sovereign grace of God, and though I am persuaded that he will complete what he has begun, yet I deem it proper to let my principles be fairly tested, before I make any avowed profession of religion." On this resolution he acted. The first thing he did, that bore the aspect of attachment to the Christian faith, was to engage a pew in a church at Blackfriars', where the gospel was preached in its purity; and he was very regular in his attendance. And it so happened that his pew adjoined the one occupied by Mr. William Holmes, the eldest son of my old friend; who now, along with his brother Edward, carried on the business from which their father had retired. Young Holmes was already slightly acquainted with Mr. Gordon, having frequently heard of him from his sisters. In consequence of their sitting so near each other in church they frequently walked home together; a close intimacy sprung up between them, and they often visited at each other's houses. The account of Mr. Gordon's miraculous escape, and the marvellous change of mind and character which immediately followed, naturally interested young Holmes, and still more his family, who readily acceded to William's proposal, that the next time he came to the Elms he should bring his friend with him. Mr. Gordon was easily prevailed upon to accept the invitation; and so favourable was the impression made by him on Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, that he was requested to repeat his visit, and in a short time became so intimate as gradually to be regarded as one of the family. Many months had not elapsed before it was evident that a deep reciprocal attachment had been formed between him and Miss Jane, which at last terminated in a union, concluded under the happiest auspices. After their marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon went to reside at Blackheath, where a few years afterwards I had the pleasure of being their guest. They had then three fine children; and though I have not seen either of them for some time, we still keep up an occasional correspondence. I am also happy to be able to say that after his marriage, Mr. Gordon became at once decided in his profession of religion, endeavouring in all things to adorn the doctrine of God his Saviour. His natural hauteur was exchanged for the meekness and gentleness of Christ; and he became as zealous in the defence and diffusion of the faith once delivered to the saints, as he had been in his hostility against it. He was much esteemed by his Christian brethren, and so also was his wife, both of whom are now advancing together to meet the grand crisis of their destiny, without any dread of the final issue.
Some time after Mr. Ryder's return to Aston, I received a letter from him giving me a sketch of his tour, and urging me to redeem the promise I had given him to pay the wedding visit. As the autumn was advancing, I resolved to go at once; and I spent two very pleasant weeks with him, visiting my other friends at intervals. One evening we had at Mr. Lewellin's a large gathering of some of the most prominent personages of my narrative, including the Rev. John Roscoe and his lady, the Rev. O. Guion, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and Mrs. Roscoe. As soon as we were comfortably seated, with nothing to do but to partake of our friend's hospitality, and enjoy the charm of social fellowship, the Rev. Mr. Roscoe, addressing Mr. Guion, said, "Can you, Sir, tell me anything about my old friends the Misses Brownjohn? The last time I heard of them they were engaged in a lawsuit about a fortune, to which they supposed themselves entitled by the death of their nephew.[45] Did they succeed in getting it?"
"Yes, Sir; and it was, I believe, a very large property. They started their carriage immediately afterwards."
"Do you know how they got over the difficulties occasioned by the non-production of the register of their birth and baptism?"
"I don't know how they got over the legal difficulties; but the other difficulty was not got over to Miss Susan's satisfaction for a long time after she came into the possession of the property."
"You refer, I presume, to the omission of her name in the parish registry, recording the fact of her regeneration?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Such a document," Mrs. John Roscoe remarked, "must be of immense value in the estimation of an unregenerated Tractarian. No getting into heaven without it! A parish registrar must be a very important functionary in the estimation of these High Church devotees. If he fail in his duty, alas! their hope of salvation vanishes—they are left to die in despair."
"To solve her difficulties," continued Mr. Guion, "Miss Susan applied to the bishop's secretary to lay her case before his lordship for his opinion. The reply was to this effect: that as she had taken the sacrament for many years, and had a distinct recollection of having been confirmed, and a faint recollection of her god-mother, it must be taken for granted that she was baptized. But even this official opinion from the highest ecclesiastical authority of the diocese, did not quite satisfy her, though her sister, Miss Dorothy, often told her it ought; and gave it as her opinion, that if there was any omission she was sure the Almighty would overlook it."
"Against this, Miss Susan demurred. 'Take for granted what ought to be positively certain! no, sister, I cannot do that.' She was restless—ever going about from one aged person to another, in the hopes of finding some one who would give her some information as to her baptism. At length she found an old woman who recollected hearing that her uncle Robert, who died young, used to be spoken of in the family as her god-father. She followed up this clue, and found a son of this uncle Robert, who, on looking through an old account book, discovered the following entry:—'Paid for a silver cup, given to my god-child, Susan Brownjohn, of Norton, £3, 10s.' This cup she still had in her possession, bearing this inscription:—'The gift of Robert Fenton.' This was hailed as an unmistakeable evidence of her regeneration; and now she felt sure of going to heaven when the Almighty took her from earth."
"How painfully absurd," said Mrs. John Roscoe, "to see an old lady trotting about, without regarding wind or weather, in search of the proof of her regeneration; or, in other words, of her title to the kingdom of heaven! Are Miss Susan and Miss Dorothy still alive?"
"Miss Dorothy is; but Miss Susan has been dead for nearly a twelvemonth. It is generally supposed that her death was hastened by her anxieties and exertions about the legitimate proof of her baptismal regeneration. When symptoms of decay became alarming, her sister engaged a professional nurse to wait upon her—an intelligent old woman, who afterwards gave me the following account of Miss Susan's last days:—
"'The first time I saw her, she was in her own room, seated in a high-backed arm-chair; the neatest room I ever saw-so clean, and everything in such prim order. 'Now, Mrs. ——, Mrs. ——,' she said to me, 'I forget your name, and therefore I shall call you Mrs. Nurse, I am going to die, for Dr. Black told me when I asked him, that he thought it probable that the Almighty was going to take me to himself; and I suppose it must be so. Now, Mrs. Nurse, I have a good many prayers to read; and a good deal to read out of this good book, The Whole Duty of Man; and I like to get all my reading over before tea, and then I can enjoy myself. You will now go out of my room, and not come back till I ring, which, I suppose, will be in about an hour's time.' However, the bell rung in about a quarter of an hour, and Miss Dorothy and I entered the room together. 'I can't,' she said to her sister, 'get through my reading so well as I used to do. I get sleepy as soon as I begin. But I see the cup.'
"'O!' said Miss Dorothy, 'you are too scrupulous, dear sister; the Almighty is sure to overlook it.'
"'I suppose he will; but I like to be particular. However, it's a great comfort to me, to see the silver cup, the proof of my baptismal regeneration; the thing necessary, you know, dear sister, to fit us for heaven. I would not part with it for another fortune from the Indies.'
"'I saw,' said the old nurse, 'a little old-fashioned silver cup on the mantel-piece, on which she often looked with evident emotions of pleasure: but I could not divine the reason, till one day she gave me a detailed history of the whole matter. She then asked me whether I was baptized at the church; and whether I had satisfied myself that it was duly entered in the church register; assuring me, that unless it was, I stood no chance of going to heaven. At length,' continued the old woman, 'the crisis came.'
"'I suppose,' said Dr. Black to her, after examining her pulse very carefully, 'you would like to take the sacrament, before the Almighty takes you to himself?'
"'To be sure I should, Doctor; our Church appoints it.'
"'Shall I request your Rector, Mr. Guion, to call?'
"'To be sure not, Doctor. I never have had anything to do with the Evangelicals while living, and they shan't come near me when dying. No, no, Doctor; I'll keep to the clergy of the proper order—the clergy of our fathers.'
"'Very good, Madam; I know your predilections.'
"'Yes, Doctor; and my antipathies.'
"'The day and hour was fixed, and old Mr. Johnson, from Ottersley, came to administer the sacrament; and Miss Susan was dressed for the occasion, propped up with pillows in her high-backed arm-chair. Soon after the ceremony was over, I saw,' said the old nurse, 'a change, and I knew death was coming; Miss Dorothy was standing by her side.' 'I feel,' she remarked, 'a queer sensation coming over me. Give me a glass of water;' but she expired when in the act of attempting to take the tumbler into her hand.'"
What a melancholy contrast this presents to the death of the pious cottager, Mrs. Allen![46]
I was happy to hear from Mrs. John Roscoe, that the ministry of her husband and his pious Curate was working moral wonders amongst his parishioners. The church was uniformly crowded with attentive hearers; the people flocked to it from distant villages and hamlets. "But, Sir," she added, "my husband has to pay the usual tax which is levied on all who distinguish themselves by their zeal and energy, in exposing the absurdity and fatal tendency of the popular superstitions, and trying to win souls to Christ. 'The most favourable construction I can put on his conduct,' said an old clergyman, in a large party, 'is this—he is a little beside himself.' I immediately replied, 'It would be, reverend Sir, a great advantage to many of your parishioners, if you also were a little beside yourself; and then they would stop at home, and attend your ministrations, instead of having to walk three or four miles every Sabbath to hear my husband.' This startled him, as he did not know that I was present. He then endeavoured to eke out an apology, which he would have been much wiser to have let alone."
I was sorry to hear that my old friend Farmer Pickford had sustained an injury by the slip of the ladder on which he was standing when lopping a tree, and that he had been confined to his bed some weeks. On seeing me enter his room, he stretched forth his hand, and said, "I thought, Sir, you would give me a bit of a call, like. I am main glad to see you. Here I am, the Lord's prisoner. I would rather be the Lord's prisoner than the devil's free man, and no mistake."
"I hope the injury you have sustained is not likely to prove a lasting one."
"Why, as for that, I can't say. But now and tan I think I shall never be the man I was. I shall never be able to dig and trench, and mow and thrash, as when I was a youngster. And, at my time of life, I can't expect it. I am sixty-five come October. I tell you what, Sir, I see mercy mixed up with this affliction; and, as one of the Psalms says, I can sing of mercy and judgment. What a mercy that my neck was not broken; and that I had no broken bones. I never felt my heart so full of gratitude on going into my homestead as I did the morning when I was brought in on the hurdle. I couldn't help shedding some tears, like. The Lord be praised."
"Then you do not murmur, or feel disquieted?"
"No, no, Sir; not I. I an't going to commit that sin. I have had much comfort while lying on this bed, and no mistake. My mistress comes and sits by my side, and reads God's precious Book to me. I get main fond of the Psalms: they are like upland springs, they refresh my soul at once, like. And she comes, after church, on a Sunday, and talks over the sarmunts she hears there; and they come home to my heart. And Harry often comes, when he has struck off work, and he reads a bit, and gives the meaning of it, in his plain way, and what he says comes to my heart. So you see, Sir, I have many mercies mixed up with this affliction."
"Well, Farmer, I am happy to find that you are still holding on your way to the kingdom of heaven, and are full of peace and hope as you move onwards."
"Why, Sir, I hope you didn't think I should turn back, when you were gone. Turn back to the world and sin! and turn my back on the precious Saviour, who had compassion on, and rescued me when I was a lost sinner! No, Sir; I would rather be hacked to death first, and no mistake. But I mustn't feel boastful. I don't keep myself. No. The Lord is my keeper. I mind a sarmunt Mr. Ingleby preached one Sunday morning. It made me strongish in faith, like; I got the text by heart before I took dinner, and I can say it, without missing a word—'And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand' (John x. 28)."
"The Psalmist says, 'It hath been good for me that I have been afflicted;' and I suppose, Farmer, you can say the same?"
"Yes, Sir, I can, and no mistake. I am main glad for this affliction. It gives me a bit of breathing time, like; I can think over spiritual matters now I am in this quiet room, better than I could while busy at the farm work. It's all right. The Lord be praised."
"You expect, I suppose, that you shall soon get about again?"
"Why, as for that, I can't say. I have a main liking for this room. It is so quiet, and my thoughts now and tan be so delightsome. It's true I have had a power of pain and suffering, but this has been overtopped by heart's ease and spiritual rejoicings. I can say, what my mistress read out of the blessed book, 'The Lord has made my bed in my affliction.' And here I am, willing to lie still or get up, to suffer longer or go to farm work, just as the Lord pleases. I a'nt much mindful about it."
"I suppose, Farmer, you have thought sometimes during your confinement, about your departure from earth, to be with Christ?"
"Aye, that's it, and no mistake. T'other night, when I was thinking a bit about dying and going into t'other world, I wondered how I should feel when looking at Jesus Christ for the first time, and what I should say to him, and what he would say to me. These thinkings came to and again, with such power, that tears streamed out of my eyes, and no mistake; and I wept on, till I fell asleep."
"He will appear in his glory, when he comes to receive you to himself; and it will be a glory very brilliant, yet it won't dazzle or confound you, as your power of vision will be equal to the grandeur of the spectacle."
"What a marvellous wonder that he should ever take a bit of a liking to such a wicked fellow as I was! But it's just like him. When he was here, he looked out for the chief of sinners; after them that are lost. I a'nt forgot your sarmunt in the barn about Zaccheus. I shall think of it when I am in heaven, if I should ever get there, as I hope I shall. And I shall have a bit of wish to see him, as he had to see Jesus Christ, when he got up into the sycamore tree."
I was much gratified by finding him in such a heavenly frame of mind—so patient under his sufferings, so resigned to the Divine will, so joyful in hope, and so strong in faith. I read a chapter, making a few explanatory remarks, prayed with him, and left him; but he would not let me go without a promise that I would see him again.
On my next visit, I saw Mrs. Pickford, who appeared the picture of grief. She wept, and said—"My dear husband has been very ill the last two days, and in very great pain; I fear the Lord is going to take him from me. However, I have the consolation of knowing, that he has taken refuge in the ark of safety; he cleaves to the dear Redeemer with all his heart. It is quite wonderful to hear how he talks about the love of Christ; about feeling its power on his soul; and about seeing him, and being made like him."
I went into his room, shook hands with him, and had a long conversation. When speaking of the Saviour coming, in the spiritual manifestations of his presence, to comfort and animate his disciples in the chamber of affliction, or when entering death's dark vale, he interrupted me by a burst of natural eloquence, which greatly delighted us—"I can speak to the truth of what you say. He does come and comfort my heart. I have had more heart-rejoicings in this room, than I ever had at church or chapel, when hearkening to sarmunts, and that is saying a great deal. My soul has been taken up to the third heaven, and though I have not seen Jesus Christ with my bodily eyes as Paul did, yet I have felt the sweetness of his love—the preciousness of his love, and no mistake. I say to my wife, I say to my children, I say to my servants, and all my neighbours, Take refuge in Christ, the living ark of safety, to save you from the wrath to come; and love him with all your hearts, and then when you die, He will come and comfort you, as he comes and comforts me. I beg pardon, Sir, for stopping you, but I couldn't hold no longer. My heart was too full."
It is now a long time since I was last at Fairmount; but I frequently correspond with Mr. Stevens and Mr. Lewellin, and hear how matters are going on in that part of the country, of which, though not my native place, I may truly say, from the pleasing associations connected with it, in the words of Horace—
"Ille terrarum mibi præter omnes
Angulus ridet."
My friends Mr. and Mrs. Stevens continue as formerly in the enjoyment of good health and spirits, and though advanced in years, are still active in promoting the religious and moral improvement of the villagers in their neighbourhood. Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin have now a young family growing up about them; and Rockhill is quite the admiration of the country round for the great improvements effected on it by Mr. Lewellin, who, by diligent perseverance, and the valuable services of his bailiff, Harry Pickford, has become quite a scientific farmer. Mr. and Mrs. Ryder are very happy, with two sweet children, a boy and a girl, and a constant interchange of visits is kept up with Rockhill and Fairmount. Miss Ryder still lives with them; but it is doubtful whether this will be the case much longer, at least it is currently reported in the village that Mr. Hartley, the Rector of Aston, is shortly to lead her to the altar, a statement which receives some corroboration, from the circumstance that the Rector has lately been getting his house repaired and newly furnished. Mrs. Roscoe, shortly after her husband's death, took up her abode with her daughter and son-in-law, where she receives every attention and kindness, and looks tranquilly forward to joining her beloved husband in a better world.
My old friend Farmer Pickford, after being confined for nearly twelve months, gradually regained his health and his physical energy, and is now become a hale old man, and has every prospect of attaining a patriarchal age. A few months since I received from him a basket of game, with the following characteristic note:—
"Reverend Sir,—As you have left off honouring my wife's cookery, she and I have been thinking that you would like to taste a bit of our game in your own house. I shot the hares, and Harry killed the partridges and the snipes. They are quite fresh—all killed yesterday. We hope they will come safe. I am happy to say that all's well at the homestead. We get a good sarmunt now and tan, in the kitchen. I hope we shall all meet in heaven, and no mistake.—Yours devoutly,
John and Martha Pickford."
His son George is now captain of a vessel, and Sam is his mate. People say that Harry is to be married soon to a daughter of Farmer Goddard; and if so, it is believed that he will leave his situation at Rockhill, and occupy the adjoining farm, which will become vacant at Michaelmas.