To heaven, I conclude he meant, by the solemnity of his manner. Yet, are not all lives owed? And, if so, my early dream of perfect bliss, namely, for two people to spend their lives together in a sort of domestic Pitcairn's Island, cradled in a spiritual Pacific Ocean, with nothing to do but to love one another—must be a delusion, or worse. I am beginning to be glad I never found it. We are not the birds and butterflies, but the labourers of the earthly vineyard. To discover one's right work and do it, must be the grand secret of life.—With or without love, I wonder? With it—I should imagine. But Doctor Urquhart in his plan of existence, never seems to think of such an insignificant necessity.
Yet let me not speak lightly. I like him—I honor him. Had I been his dead brother, or a sister which he never had, I would have helped, rather than have hindered him in his self-sacrificing career. I would have scorned to put in my poor claim over him or his existence. It would have seemed like taking for daily uses the gold of the sanctuary.
And here pondering over all I have heard of him and seen in him: the self-denial, the heroism, the religious purity of his daily life—which has roused in even the light heart of Augustus Treherne an attachment approaching to positive devotion, that all the jesting of Lisabel is powerless to shake, I call to mind one incident of this day, which startled, shocked me: concerning which even now I can scarcely credit the evidence of my own ears.
We had all gathered round the fire waiting papa's return from the second service, Penelope, Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, I. The rain had cleared off, and there was only a soft drip, drip, on the glass of the greenhouse outside. We were very peaceful and comfortable: it felt almost like a family circle—which, indeed it was, with one exception. The new member of our family seemed to make himself considerably at his ease—sat beside his Lisa, and held her hand under cover of her apron—at which I thought I saw Doctor Urquhart smile. Why should he? The caress was quite natural.
Penelope was less restless than usual: owing may be to her long letter and the prospect of seeing Francis in a week: he comes to the marriage, of course. Poor fellow, what a pity we cannot have two weddings instead of one!—it is rather hard for him to be only a wedding guest and Penelope only a bridesmaid. But I am ceasing to laugh at even Francis and Penelope.
I myself, in my own little low chair in its right angle on the hearth-rug, felt perfectly happy. Is it the contrast between it and the life of solitude of which I have only lately had any knowledge that makes my own home life so much sweeter than it used to be?
The gentlemen began talking together about the difference between this quiet scene and that of November last year: when, Sebastopol taken, the army was making up its mind to winter in idleness, as merrily as it could. And then Doctor Urquhart reverted to the former winter, the terrible time—until its miseries reached and touched the English heart at home. And yet, as Doctor Urquhart said, such misery seems often to evoke the noblest half of man's nature. Many an anecdote, proving this, he told about “his poor fellows,” as he called them; tales of heroism, patient endurance, unselfishness and generosity,—such as, in the mysterious agency of providence, are always developed by that great purifier as well as avenger, war.
Listening, my cheek burnt to think I had ever said I hated soldiers. It is a solemn question, too momentous for human wisdom to decide upon, and, probably, never meant to be decided in this world—the justice of carnage, the necessity of war. But thus far I am convinced—and intend, the first opportunity, to express my thanks to Doctor Urquhart for having taught me the lesson—that to set one's self in fierce aversion against any class as a class, is both foolish and wicked. We should “hate” nobody. The Christian warfare is never against sinners, but against sin.
Speaking of the statistics of mortality in the army, Doctor Urquhart surprised us by stating how small a percentage—bless me, I am beginning to talk like a blue-book—results from death in battle and from wounds. And strange as it may appear, the mortality in a? campaign, with all its fatal chances, is less than in barracks at home. He has long suspected this, from the accounts of the men, and having lately, from clear data, ascertained its accuracy, intends urging it at the Horse Guards, or failing there, in the public press,—that the causes may be inquired into and remedied. It will be at some personal risk: Government never likes being meddled with; but he seems the sort of man who, having once got an idea into his head, would pursue it to the death—and very right too. If I had been a man, I would have done exactly the same.
All this while, I have never told—that thing. It came out, as well as I can remember, thus:—.