CHAPTER VII.
THE HAY-FIELD FÊTE.
Scarcely were the young amateur haymakers, who, by-the-by, were furnished with light forks and rakes suited to such delicate hands as those of the ladies—scarcely were all engaged in raking and throwing up the hay into wainrow under the generalship of George Woodburn, with much mutual merriment over one another’s awkwardness, and over Thorsby’s mercurial capers and flourishes—when a novel sight arrested their attention, and brought them all to a full stand. It was a long procession of the labourers, each carrying a dish, and marshalled and watched over by Betty Trapps. The men had finished their own dinners in the house, and were now, on the return to the field, made the bearers of the viands for the gentry. Clumsy as such Ganymedes might be supposed, they had in their time been often employed to carry eggs and young lambs, as well as most of them babies, and they executed their task without a single stumble; and soon, according to custom, a horn was sonorously blown at the tent-door to call the party to dinner. All came trooping in free array, like a happy flock of pigeons dropping down to their barley at the barndoor. There were no leadings-in of ladies, but all came laughing and chatting amongst each other, and found an excellent dinner awaiting them. I shall not chronicle the courses; my readers can imagine all sorts of delicacies, to which the merry troop, seating themselves without any regard to precedence, seemed ready to do ample justice. Somehow, however, Dr. Leroy happened to find his seat at the elbow of Miss Millicent Heritage, beaming with radiance of youth and beauty from beneath those jetty eye-lashes; Harry Thorsby, by an equal chance, sate close to Letty, whose fair, fresh, heart-lit features cast a sunshine round her; and George, the grave but genial George Woodburn, occupied a place betwixt Mr. and Mrs. Degge, to whom he could show all attention. Mr. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage were neighbours, and seemed to have much of interest to talk of, in which Ann and her mother occasionally joined, but what they said could not be heard from the clatter of plates and youthful tongues in full play.
Betty Trapps, and Tom Boddily, in his old soldier’s coat, waited on the company; and Sylvanus Crook, as something more than a servant, had a seat amongst the guests. No happier party ever dined under an oak in a tented field, as Thorsby called it. It was wonderful, too, to see the dexterity and ability with which Tom Boddily performed his office. Ever and anon Thorsby had a witty word with him, and Tom was never without his answer. “Where didst thou learn to serve at table so nicely?” asked Mrs. Heritage.
“With my captain, madam.”
“Oh! thou hast been in the army?”
“Yes, madam, served fifteen years.”
“And wast thou in any battles?”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say that I haven’t been in battles, but none where much powder was spent. I was in the militia.”
“Oh! that was it. Thou never wast out of England?”
“No, madam.”
“And thy captain?”
“That’s the present Squire Chillington, madam. I wor his servant many years while in the regiment.”
“And how camest thee to leave him?”
Tom looked significant; a smile stole round his mouth. “Well, the captain, ma’am, left me.”
“Oh, indeed! I hope thou hast not offended him justly, anyway?”
“No, madam, oh no! not in the least; but people may know too much, and it is inconvenient.”
There was some laughter. “Chillington, we all know, has been a very wild fellow,” said Mr. Woodburn; “was it not so, Tom?”
“True, sir, true,” said Tom.
“Tell us a little about him, when you were with him, Tom,” said Harry Thorsby.
“Well,” said Tom, as he continued to run about, changing plates and attending to everybody’s wants, “I don’t like telling tales out of school; but since my old master signed the warrant with Squire Bullockshed for picking up a hare that I happened to see in a snickle”—here Tom was drowned in a loud burst of laughter from the gentlemen—“since he did that, I don’t feel so tongue-tied as afore. Well, it is true enough, my captain did sow his wild oats pretty freely. It was a gay time, that regimental time. What with a splendid mess, and fine horses, and dogs, and fine”—Tom hesitated a moment—“fine people of one sort or another, money did go, though. My captain blazed away faster than any of them. Wasn’t he heir to the fine old estate of Beech-Lees? Well, it was the old story: my captain wor continually out at the elbows. Money, money, money wor always wanted. The governor, as he called him, that wor his honoured father, after a while stopped dead short, and wouldn’t out with a stiver. ‘Tom,’ he said—that worn’t me, it wor my captain, he wor named Thomas—‘Tom,’ he said, ‘must live on his pay.’ Live on his pay! The pay of the whole regiment wouldn’t have done for him. Well, he used to write to his father’s steward to send him money, telling him he should find the good of it when he came to the estate. And the steward sent him money for awhile, but then he writ that the Squire had got an inkling of what he was doing, and kept such a strict ferreting into the books, that it was all up in that quarter. The steward remained a good sum out of pocket.
“I believe my captain had managed to borrow considerable sums of the Jews on what are called past-a-bits, but the Squire soon let them know that the estate wasn’t entailed, and that was up too, and the Jews were as keen after him as so many hounds after a hare. As to borrowing of any of the brother officers, they were all pretty much of a muchness, that is, they were all very able to borrow, but not to lend. There was only one of them that was able to lend, and that was the Major, and he had the unfortunate name of Need.”—Much laughter, and loud cachination, or what Betty Trapps called crowing, from Thorsby.—“Major Need was always in need. You might as well have asked fire of a fish as money of the Major. He always pleaded poverty, and said the mess was really so extravagant, he should get all the leave of absence that he could. And you may believe me, he did spend the greater part of his time at home. And what was he doing? Why, he was just as busy as a bee in planting a vast lot of poor, sandy land that he had with larch trees. There he was, while my captain and the rest of the officers were sowing their wild oats, always busy in sowing larch seed, and having a lot of men at work planting the young trees out as they grew. There you might see this poor man, who never had a penny to lend to a brother officer in distress, riding away to his beggarly land not worth a rent of a shilling an acre, mounted on a sturdy pony, bearing a sort of bag slung on his back, with his dinner in it, and a big pruning-knife and a little saw in it besides—going, he was, to prune his larches as they wanted it, and keep a sharp eye on his men at work. Well, I was that way the other day, and bless my stars! what a vast of fine woods that man has, and they tell me he is as rich as a duke, him that in our regiment’s time never had a penny to lend or spend.
“Well, it came to a sharp pass at last with my captain. The lady asked if I had been in any battles. Ay, troth, I was at that time in battles enow, with those unreasonablest of varmint, called duns. My captain would have been awlis in prison if mother nature had not blest me with a good share of contrivance, and a skull that could stand sharp acquaintance with constables’ staffs. Oh! if I do miss heaven at last, it will be for all the lies I told them, for my captain. How often I have sworn that he was gone down to see his honoured father, who was on his death-bed, when all the while he was trembling in every limb behind the door that I held in their faces.
“Once I was nearly sold. Oh, my gracious! didn’t my heart leap into my mouth! Things were come to such a pass that something very ingenious must be thought of. ‘I have it,’ said I to the captain. ‘I’ll hire a coffin, and when they come I’ll say you’re just dead.’ ‘No, Tom!’ he said, ‘no; that won’t do.’ Then said I, ‘I give in, and there’s nothing for it but the debtor’s gaol.’ Well, that cowed him. ‘Do as you like, Tom,’ said he; and very soon I had hired a good oak-coffin and gilt breastplate from the undertaker just by. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘when these fellows come thundering to-day, as I hear they will—they swear they’ll break locks—you just lie down in a sheet, and leave the rest to me.’
“Well, no sooner said than done. I had hardly time to lock the door, and compose my captain’s goodly limbs decently in the coffin, and put the lid loosely on, when, bang! came the constables at the door. Quick, quick did I open. ‘Oh, is it you?’ said I, sobbing bitterly, and with brooks of water running from my eyes, for I had a famous strong onion hidden in my handkerchief. ‘Oh! come in,’ said I, ‘come in, and see what you’ve done. You’ve broken his heart at last. There he lies! Oh, enjoy the sight—do, do! Enjoy the misery you have made. Oh! what hearts are bleeding down the country there for this handsome, good-hearted young gentleman that you’ve killed!’
“I off with the coffin-lid—ghastly looked my captain’s face, with whiting that I had daubed it with. ‘There!’ said I, ‘you’ve killed him. Your worrying had brought him so low, he catched the typhus, and——’ Here my tears stopped my voice. ‘Fie! typhus!’ exclaimed the fellows in horror, and out they brushed. But it was nearly all ruination. My captain, impatient of his coffin, lifted his head before they were well out of the door, and said, laughing, ‘Are those scamps gone?’ Quick one of the constables turned, ‘Didn’t I hear something? Didn’t I see something stir?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said I, ‘you saw the wind from the door blow the shroud up, and with it, no doubt, the air of the fever. Ha! away!—it is as much as your life is worth.’ The man bolted, and for that time all was right. But it was a very near touch, with the captain’s impatience.” (Loud Hear, hears! and much laughter.)
“Lucky for us, the regiment marched next day, and my captain had gone off in the night. But at our next quarters it was not much better. The captain was clean swept out of money, trinkets, and of almost all his clothes. He had a gold watch which his mother had given him. It cost forty guineas, and that he had kept through all. One day he said to me on the parade ground, ‘Tom, I have left my watch on the chimney-piece in my room. Fetch it, or I shall not know when to dismiss the men.’ I knew very well what it meant. He could have dismissed the men well enough, for the town-hall clock was right opposite to him, as he fronted the ranks. I knew that he meant at last to take it to my uncle.”
“Hadst thou an uncle living there?” interrupted Mrs. Heritage.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Tom, drily. “Poor men have uncles everywhere, and very kind ones; their doors always stand open to them.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Heritage, in her wealthy ignorance of such uncles, and amid the stifled merriment of the young people.
“What I mean,” said Tom, “is, he meant to put it up the spout.”
“Up the spout!” said Mrs. Heritage, in augmented astonishment. “He meant to hide it?”
Tom nodded assent.
“He meant to pawn it, he means,” said Mr. Woodburn. “That’s his slang,” seeing that Thorsby’s good manners were choking him.
“Oh, that was it!” said Mrs. Heritage.
“Yes, that was just it,” said Tom. “I went off with a sad heart on the errand, but I soon had a sadder. When I went into my captain’s room, the watch was not there. I called the landlady, and said, ‘Who has taken Captain Chillington’s watch away?’
“‘His watch?’ said the landlady, ‘why, he sent for it!’
“‘Sent for it!—by whom?’ said I.
“‘Why, a young man, in a dark grey livery and silver-laced hat, came for it. He said he was Major Need’s man, and Captain Chillington had asked him to come and fetch his watch from the parlour mantel-piece, and his overcoat from the peg in the passage.’
“The ground seemed opening under my feet. ‘Did he say where the watch was?’
“‘Yes,’ said the landlady.
“‘And the overcoat on the peg?’
“‘He did,’ said she, now all in a tremor of fright. ‘He seemed to know so exactly all about them, that I never suspected nothing at all.’
“‘And the coat’s gone, too?’ said I, looking into the passage.
“‘That’s sartain,’ said the woman.
“I rushed out; there was no time to lose. I ran round to all the pawnbrokers first; then to the police-office; then to the town-crier. I offered five pounds reward to any one who would detect the thief; I did that on my own head; I did not go to the parade—it would have been of no use—it would have been over—and I did not like to break the news. When I came back chop-fallen to our lodgings, there was my captain. The landlady had told him all. There he sate, dropped down into a low chair, and he looked now more like a corpse than he did in the coffin. He never spoke. I was horribly afraid that he’d go off into an apoplexy, or something, or lose his senses. ‘Captain,’ said I, ‘you’ve heard it.’ He never moved. ‘Captain!’ said I again, louder, and shook him by the shoulder. ‘It is no use sorrowing or fretting, we must be wide awake to recover the property.’
“Then he gave a great sigh, and seemed to rouse a little. ‘It is of no use,’ he said; ‘that was an old hand, that thief. Catch a weazel asleep, and shave his eye-brows. You’ll never catch that scamp. It is all up, Boddily. That was my last throw. There is not a single stone in this cursed world left unturned,’ and he went quite stupid and stony again.
“‘Captain,’ said I, ‘it is of no use talking that way. We must be after the fellow, we shall catch him before he leaves the town. Faint heart never won fair lady. Rouse, captain, rouse; we’ll have him yet, and all will be well.’
“But you might as well have tried to rouse a milestone. At last he burst into tears, and he cried like a child, and rocked to and fro in his chair with his face buried in his hands. He sprang up suddenly, and snatched a pistol from the mantel-piece; I tore it from his hand.
“‘Are you mad, captain?’ I said. ‘Would you go headlong to everlasting destruction, and kill your mother with grief?’ That seemed to sober him a little. ‘Cheer up,’ said I; ‘it’s an old saying, “When things come to the worst, they begin to mend.”’
“‘Never with me, Tom,’ he said, throwing himself down, and looking the pictur o’ despair. ‘Never with me—all’s up. I’m a doomed man—nothing prospers with me.’
“I could have told him why they did not prosper, soon enough; but he’d enough on him without any cut from me. As for me, I was at my wits’ end. How should I manage to keep him from laying violent hands on himself? I was about to ring for the landlady, and, while telling her to bring some brandy, whisper to her to run for help—when, bang! comes a thundering knock at the door. ‘Lock it, quick, woman!’ said I. But even that did not rouse my captain. ‘They are there, again, let them come,’ he said—‘let them do their worst.’
“The landlady, however, had opened the door on the chain. Women are awlis sharper about such things than we are. In she comes with a letter and a great black seal with a coat of arms. The captain glanced at it,—he pounced on it like a hawk—he tore it open and read. His hand trembled, then shook violently—the letter dropped, and he dropped, too. I caught him in my arms. ‘Water!’ I cried, ‘water! brandy!’ The landlady flew. We drenched him with water; we tried to force some brandy between his teeth, but couldn’t. They were set as fast as rocks. At length he gave a deep sike (sigh), opened his eyes, and drank off the whole glass of brandy.
“‘Troubles never comes alone,’ he said, beginning to speak. ‘The governor is dead, Tom; we must be off to-night for Beech-Lees; run and take our places in the night-coach.’ He tried to look as if the blow of this news had been a stunner, but I could see that it was huge relief. Mountains were off his shoulders. The governor was past all his troubles, and there was that fine old property of Beech-Lees. I had no further fear about my captain.
“‘But,’ said I—‘I’ll run to the coach—but the money for the fares?’
“‘Oh!’ said he, looking about for the fallen letter, ‘there’s money enough.’
“I picked it up, and another bit of paper.
“‘That’s it,’ said he. ‘There’s no want of money, now.’ It was a Bank of England note for one hundred pounds. ‘Get the Major to change it into small notes,’ he said. ‘He has always bushels of them.’
“I was running out to take our places, when I went slap up against a constable. ‘The carrion have got scent of the carcass already,’ said I to myself. The next moment I saw my captain’s gold watch in his hand. ‘We have found this,’ he said, ‘at a pawnbroker’s, pledged for five pounds.’ ‘All right,’ said the captain. ‘Catch the man, and I’ll give you fifty pounds, and come and prosecute the thief.’
“He took the watch. ‘That’s it,’ he said; and put it in his pocket.
“‘But we shall want that,’ said the man, ‘when we charge the thief before the magistrate.’
“‘Catch your hare, and then we’ll cook him,’ said my captain, now grown quite cheery. The man looked as if he would have the watch back to produce in court. ‘When you have the thief,’ said the captain, ‘you will have both the watch and myself to produce; in the meantime, Tom, take this good fellow, and give him a couple of guineas, for his present trouble; be quick, we have no time to spare.’
“That night we were on the way; the next morning we were at Beech-Lees. Soon after Captain Chillington got married, and made a thorough change in his establishment. Among the rest, I went to the wall; but I would not have minded, after all we suffered together in our sogering days, if he hadn’t signed that warrant of Squire Bullockshed’s. That was a cut that will stick by me till the day of my death.”
By this time, the dinner was over, the dishes all removed, for Tom Boddily had been rapidly serving and changing all the time he talked. A splendid dessert was set on the table, of grapes and peaches from the hot-houses of Rockville, mellow gooseberries, raspberries, strawberries, and cherries from the Grange garden; and Tom made his bow amid many thanks for his story, and withdrew with Betty Trapps, to play his part amongst the wainrows. Great commendations were heaped on Tom for his ability in both telling a story and waiting at table, and his services were not likely to be neglected on fitting occasions from that day.
Soon after this, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage rose and walked out into the pleasant sunny air of the field. A soft breeze was blowing, or rather breathing over the warm, dry country. Mr. Woodburn joined Mr. and Mrs. Degge, and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage wandered up the field where it was cleared of the hay, and seated themselves on a bank beneath a noble crab-apple-tree covered with green fruit. They appeared deeply absorbed in conversation, and any one listening might have caught frequently the names of Sir Emanuel Clavering, his son Henry, and of Ann Woodburn. There was a mother’s care in the usually bright and comely face of Mrs. Woodburn: there was higher care in the noble countenance of Mrs. Heritage.
“Then thou dost not think,” she said, looking earnestly at Mrs. Woodburn, “that he really does practise ungodly arts?”
“Oh, no!” replied Mrs. Woodburn. “That is all the silly talk of the silly, superstitious country people—that is, country people of all sorts—for the farmers are as superstitious as the labourers: and when Sir Emanuel appeared at the hustings at Castleborough to nominate a friend of his as candidate for a parliamentary seat for the county, the farmers set up a great yell, and would not hear him, saying, ‘That is old Clavering who deals with the Devil.’ But it is all because he is a great astronomer, and is seen going out at night to his observatory. The truth is, as I believe—and a sad truth it is, he does not believe in our Saviour.”
“Oh! how very sad! how very deplorable!” said the pious-hearted Friend. “I feel greatly drawn to speak with him on the subject. Such a very clever and agreeable man as he is; and to be so far overseen. Truly it is sad that this world’s knowledge makes us blind. And his son Henry, dost thou think he has instilled these unhappy sentiments into him?”
Here Mrs. Woodburn bent closer to her friend, and the conversation became still more earnest and engrossing, but carried on in a low tone, and with many pauses, and significant looks and gestures, and not unfrequent deeply-drawn sighs.
But the sounds from the tent below, which had been hitherto those of a continuous clatter of tongues, and of merry laughter, now came forth in a chorus of singing voices, in which the bass tones of Thorsby were predominant amid the clear, sweet voices of the young ladies. The tent was like a great cage of warbling birds, or as Mrs. Woodburn said, of happy angels. “Oh!” said she, “I do love to see young people happy. No one knows what after-life may bring. For youth—so a poem which I saw in the newspaper the other day said—
‘It is the time of roses,
They pluck them as they pass.’”
“I only hope,” said the careful Mrs. Heritage, “that they won’t teach my Millicent any vanities. She is naturally, I think, only too fond of music and singing; and thou knowest our Society sees such a snare in these things.”
“Oh! my dear Mrs. Heritage, Miss Heritage will hear nothing here but what is perfectly good. They have been singing only Burns’s sweet ‘Banks and Braes o’ bonnie Doon.’”
To the fair Friend, whatever might be the moral qualities of “Bonnie Doon” was all unknown; but the discussion was cut short by the whole youthful troop issuing from the tent, and going briskly across the field, and disappearing in a wood that ran down towards the river. Nothing more was heard of them till tea-time, except an occasional call of a clear, female voice, or a note of laughter, for awhile, and then all was still. About five o’clock, the workmen having their “four-o’-clock,” as it is termed, amid the haycocks, were seen bringing up the apparatus and materials for tea, which was not set out in the tent, but this time amongst the hay in front, abundance of cushions being brought for the company to sit upon. Once more the horn was lustily winded, this time by Mr. Woodburn, George having gone off with the rest of the young people: and, anon, like Robin Hood and his men, they were seen coming gaily over the hill.
They all came in glowing with heat and evident pleasure. Letty Woodburn looked like a sylph, but a very rosy one, all light and gladness, as if ready to fly away: even the gentle Millicent’s clear blue eyes flashed a radiant enjoyment. According to their account they had been taking botanic lessons from Dr. Leroy, and had suddenly come upon Mr. Thomas Clavering, the rector of Cotmanhaye, fishing in the river, who had amused them with a world of anecdotes about birds and animals. He had assured them that he had seen a jay with an audience of wondering birds all around him on a tree, whom he was astonishing by the cleverest imitations of different singing birds.
Thereupon Sylvanus Crook said he quite believed that. He was “quite satisfied that birds sing songs of praise to their Creator quite intelligible to birds.”
“But,” said Harry Thorsby, “they always sing the same airs.”
“Yes, Henry Thorsby, it may seem so to thee; but in my opinion, if we could understand them, we should find them poets far beyond many of our own kind. They do not, indeed, sing about men’s actions, but of the goodness of God to birds, and of the beauties and pleasures of creation. Hast thou not heard, friend Henry, of the Eastern Sultan’s minister who knew the language of birds?”
“Oh! that’s a fable, friend Crook,” said Thorsby, “an Eastern apologue.”
“Maybe,” said Sylvanus; “but I think that is a very beautiful observation of Izaak Walton, the great angler; who on hearing the nightingale sing, said:—‘If God gave such music here to the wicked and ungrateful, what will He give to his saints in heaven?’”
“So you do like music after all, friend Crook?” asked Thorsby, sarcastically.
“Yes, natural music,” said Sylvanus, and Harry Thorsby was girding him up for a regular dispute on the Friend’s objection to music, but he was prevented by all seconding Sylvanus’s quotation of Izaak Walton as extremely beautiful, and by Mr. Woodburn asking Tom Boddily what he had been doing lately, intending to draw out some of his country humour.
“I’ve been a little on my travels,” said Tom.
“Oh, indeed! where?”
“Well, I crossed an arm of the sea, as my companion, simple Simon Grainger, called it, and got into a country on the other side.”
“Ah! where did you cross this arm of the sea?”
“At a place called Sawley.”
“Sawley!” said several voices at once. “Why, that is on the Trent, Tom.”
“Well, I dare say it is; but Grainger, who never was five miles from home, insisted that it was an arm of the sea.”
“And what did you do on the other side, Tom?”
“We were employed in getting gravel for roads out of the river Soar with a machine, and Grainger had a fine opportunity of earning a guinea in less time than he ever earned a groat in his life, if he had had faith enough.”
“Not faith enough?”
“No,” said Tom. “You see, a gentleman, as he was crossing the ferry near us, pulled out his gold watch to look at the time, and let it drop into the river. It was quite plain to be seen, for the river is as clear almost as air, but it was deeper than it seemed. The gentleman tried to get it up with his stick, but could not reach it, and he offered a guinea to any of the passengers as would fetch it up. None of them would. So the ferryman calls to us, and says to Grainger, ‘Old fellow, you’ve good six feet of stuff in you; just jump in and get hold of the watch, and there’s a guinea for you.’ ‘No, thank you,’ said Grainger; ‘don’t you believe it; I can trust God Almighty on the ground, or in a tree, but not i’ th’ water.’ It was no use urging him. ‘Stop a minute,’ said I, ‘I’m but a short ‘un, but there are more ways than one of roasting apples.’ So I asked the gentleman to lend me his stick. ‘It’s not long enough, my man,’ says he. ‘Isn’t it?’ says I, taking the stick. I just laid mysen down on the boat, stripped my arm bare to the shoulder, and in a jiffy I had twisted the hook of the stick into the guard-chain, and up comes the watch, and down goes the guinea into my pocket. ‘There’s not much of thee,’ said the gentleman, looking at me, as he handed me the guinea; ‘but thou’st got thy share of brains.’”
Sylvanus thought Grainger’s speech almost impious, not to trust God in the water as well as on the land. “Ah! poor, ignorant man,” said Mrs. Heritage, “his faith only stops short at one point, and ours at another. Is there not a limit to the faith of every one of us?” she asked. “Would not Sylvanus find a limit to his faith in some other direction?”
“Ay, that he would,” said Thorsby, as he lay kicking his legs about in the hay. “Let him walk over burning ploughshares as they did in the middle ages.”
“As for that,” said Sylvanus, “I could walk over them readily enough, but I would decline walking upon them.”
“Would your faith enable you to climb up the church-steeple and stand on the weather-cock, and turn round upon it, as a foolish fellow did the other day?”
“No,” said Sylvanus, “there, friend Henry, thou hast indeed found my limit. My faith is not a foolish faith. I would not tempt Providence.”
“Well, dear friends,” said Mrs. Heritage, as if afraid that the conversation might take a rather caustic turn, “I think the evening warns us to remove. Dear Millicent, draw thy shawl round thee, and our other dear young women friends I would caution to do the same. You have been warm with your little excursion. And here I would remark that it is the custom of our Society on social occasions, sometimes to drop into a little solemn silence, in which something beneficial may arise in our minds. I would kindly invite you to such an exercise.”
When all had fallen into a silence, which to some of them was a rather curious thing amid the pleasures of a festive day, Mrs. Heritage, at first in a soft and musical voice, which by degrees acquired depth and earnestness, said—“Dear friends, this has been a beautiful, and to all of us, I think, a very happy day. Let us not forget to be grateful to the Giver of it, and of all good gifts. Days come and go, and, however stationary we may seem, we are going with them. The bloom and gaiety of youth, beautiful as it is, is evanescent as the glories of yon western sky.”
At these words all involuntarily turned, and saw one of the most glorious and gorgeous spectacles imaginable. All the western sky was flooded with waves of gold and purple, burning in and through clouds of richest magnificence. An opening in them gave passage to the blaze of the departing sun, and resembled the gates of heaven thrown wide, and, within them, far receding regions of celestial splendour. All below, under the effect of this intense radiance, looked dark and mysterious, like a weird land of cimmerian shadow that might hide some mystery.
The fair speaker paused awhile as every eye was earnestly fixed on the scene, then went on, as if speaking the thought of every bosom. “Truly ‘this may be said to be the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’ What power but that of almighty wisdom could suddenly put forth a celestial emblazonment like that? What architect could design such a wondrous and portentous portal to imperial city or palace? What painter could suffuse it with hues and glories so divine? Yet, such is the prodigality of the Omnipotent Artist, who has sent forth, in a moment almost, that glorious vision, that in a few moments He will suffer it to depart, as if it were of no value. We, or most of us, visit the galleries of great painters; we gaze in enthusiasm on the imitations of nature which they hang upon our walls, and decree immortality to them for their inspired achievement; yet the King of artists every day spreads before our eyes, and the eyes of the simplest and the poorest, landscapes and aerial paintings which no mortal hand can ever equal, and no man lays it to heart. The peasant, returning home at this hour along some solitary vale, sees a picture such as no so-called immortal master ever accomplished, such as no king’s house can boast. Yet we feel no wonder; we utter no praise. Behold! and the marvellous scene is gone!”
All again turned, and saw but a grey, dull sky, and below the solemn gloom deepened into intense blackness. The speaker paused; her fair, finely-developed face, seemed rapt as into an ecstasy, still and passionless; it was as if the inner eye looked spirit-like through the outer, and saw deep into the looming night of the western quarter. A deep sigh escaped her, and with softer and strangely thrilling tones, she said,
“I feel it, dear friends, laid solemnly upon me to utter words which seem not to befit a day of gladness. My spirit wrestles with it, and would flee from the burden, as the Hebrew prophet fled from the burden of Nineveh; but a mightier, holier power compels me, and I must obey.” A strange shudder passed through the youthful listeners, and Letty, greatly excited, half sprang up and cried, “Oh, don’t! don’t!” But George quietly held her down, and put his arm round her, clasping her with brotherly affection. The speaker, as if unconscious of the sensation she had evoked, went on.
“Beautiful, very beautiful was yonder sky; beautiful, very beautiful are the days which have passed here. Dark, however, the gloom which underlay that glory of colours. I feel some of us, perhaps many of us, perhaps all, more or less, baptised into that darkness. We are passing deep into its shadowy regions. We are pilgrims and wayfarers through the valley of the shadow of death, through the midnight wastes of blackness and despair. Oh! thou heavenly and tender Father! extend thy omnipotent hand. Lift us over the torrents rolling through the deep, deep darkness; bear us up in thy loving, unforsaking arms!”
The speaker paused, and sate still as a stone image. Her eyes were open, but the awed and affrighted circle could not tell for their lives on what they rested. Again, slowly lifting her hand, and pointing westward, she said—
“Yes, ever-living, ever-merciful Father, Thou dost lead us. It is borne in upon my heart to know and feel that to all who hold fast their faith, there shall be a safe re-issue from the temporary gloom. Not a hair shall fall from the head of any of us. Thou wilt baptise us into sorrow, only to inspire us with wisdom, with faith, with love. Over that gloom of a little time, again the heavenly glow of Thy divine pencil, the radiance of Thy inner and inexhaustible beams of beauty, shall steal abroad; and the latter shall be lovelier, though more subdued, than the former pageant. All Thy colours of life shall be clearer, purer, more lofty, more etherial. The after-glow of our evening shall be more tenderly fair, more serenely blessed, than our noon has been strong and rejoicing. Amen!”
During the latter part of this startling address, the eyes of the company had mechanically followed the hand of the speaker, and saw the colours of the sunset once more travel out, kindle anew, as it were, all over the western sky in most exquisite and trancelike beauty. It seemed as if the inspired woman had command of the elements, and that their magic limnings followed the motion of her hand; the soul within, however, did but follow the course of nature and the promptings of God. How often, in future years, did every member of that company reflect on these words with wonder, though they now somewhat offended the sense of fitness in many of those who deemed auguries of evil ill-timed as the finale of a day of youthful rejoicing. The speaker, however, rose up, and, without any apology, shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, said “Farewell” to her young friends, and taking Millicent’s arm, walked silently towards the Grange, at whose gate her carriage and that of the Degges were waiting to take them home.
All the rest followed in silence. At the gate of the Grange Mr. Woodburn pressed Mrs. Heritage to go in and take some supper, but she declined, the carriages rolled away, and the company dispersed. Harry Thorsby, however, went in, and remained for some time. But no one was inclined for supper, though a very charming one was set out, with abundance of creams, and custards, and other rural dainties. Letty was in a state of strange excitement. She appeared quite hysterical, now bursting into tears, now laughing outright, and at length sunk down in a fainting fit on the sofa. There was great alarm and agitation; but Mr. Woodburn said, “Be quiet; don’t disturb her; only stand back, and let her have air; she will soon be better.”
“It is that silly, preaching woman,” said Thorsby. “What does she mean by coming here and croaking of all sorts of trouble, like a confounded old beldame as she is?”
“Gently!” said Leonard Woodburn. “If no evil is meant us, Mrs. Heritage cannot and does not wish to bring it. If some evil does impend over us—for what mortal shall say that he is insurance-proof against it?—let us rather pray earnestly that it may be averted, or that we may have strength given us to bear it. But all that she means, probably, are the inevitable trials that this life sends us all. It is merely her Quaker language.”
By this time Letty had recovered her consciousness, opened her eyes, sprung up, saying, “Oh! what have I been doing? Why are you all standing there, and looking so strange?”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Woodburn, kissing her, “you were too much excited by Mrs. Heritage’s sermon; you have fainted; you had better go to bed.”
Letty gave a shudder, wiped her face, on which the tears stood glittering, and said, “Oh, why did she talk so! What could possess her! Yes, mother dear, I will go to bed.” She smiled, kissed her father, throwing her arms round his neck, shook hands with the rest, and sprang away upstairs, followed by Ann—who was also deeply moved—and her mother.