She has never spoken a word of apology for all I have had to go through, though it was partly her doing. But that I do not mind: that I can bear. What stirs me to the depths, is the knowledge that her eyes have seen what no human being was meant to see of my heart,—and that her hand may have given the parting stroke severing me from Arthur Lenox for ever!
Only—"may have." I must fight against any assumption that she has actually done it, without full proof.
But without this, I have much to forgive. And it seems to me that forgiveness of injury is not so much a stated action as a continuous state of mind. I thought I had fought the battle and was conqueror. Now I find that the battle has to be fought over and over again, if I would remain conqueror. It is not enough to say one hour, "I forgive!" And the next hour to be under the dominion of fresh annoyance. I have to aim at a continuous state of loving calm and pity, acknowledging the fact of wrong-doing on her part, yet not exasperated by it,—rather, looking away from her, and taking all pain straight from my Master's Hand.
Is it not so that He looks upon us,—with ceaseless compassionate love? Sometimes we are apt to clothe Him in thought with our own fitfulness. But He does not vary. He is always the same. His forgiveness of us is a constant condition of mind, if one may so reverently speak, not a sensation coming and going, as when man pardons man. We are always grieving Him: He is always forgiving us. And what He is to His children, He would have them be in their little way one to another.
But though I see what I ought to be, I am far enough from attainment. I can but plead to be taken in hand by my Master, taught, trained, moulded, into that which will please Him. Meantime bodily weakness no doubt makes the fight harder. Manner can be controlled, and I hope I do control it; but inwardly a jarred and tired irritation is upon me: I am hourly tempted to feel that nothing is worth doing, nothing worth living for.
Thyrza and Elfie are a comfort. Thyrza, however, is a good deal preoccupied just now: and Elfie keeps loving words for when we are alone, evidently not venturing to show her real feelings before Miss Millington.
After all, I find nothing so helpful as to get away from everybody into some quiet nook, near at hand; and there to find myself alone with Nature,—alone with God. For Nature never hinders intercourse with God. Man is the great hindrance. Nature speaks to us of God, and speaks in clear tones too, though in a language not so easily "understanded of the people" as the voice of Revelation. It does seem sad that man, as the highest part of Nature, should not always speak to men of God; but too often he does not. So one naturally turns from human discord to the more true if lower music of things inanimate.
I love to lie upon the grass of a certain favourite bank, and there to lose myself in quiet studying of the mountain-outlines, the long winding of the Dale, the patches of autumn-red bracken on The Fell, the little streamlets coursing each hillside, the peaceful cloudland of sky above. At such times the bitter thought of what might have been and is not ceases to haunt me; and every whisper of the wind among the trees and every ripple of the nearest brook comes like a murmur from the unseen world. At such times, I can see things in a truer perspective: and the Life Beyond looks grand and restful, whatever this little life may be.
October 8. Thursday.—Startling news to-day! They are coming home!
We were all together in the schoolroom, when Nona entered with a rush, crying, "Two letters, and both for Miss Con! One from Mother, and one from Lady Denham!"