The winter of 1602 had come, and on the ground in Devonshire the snow lay deep. The trees, thickly planted all round Umberleigh, drooped with the white weight; and a keen North wind groaned among the branches. All was gloomy and chill outside.
And inside, all was gloomy and mournful too, for a soul was in departing. The ripe fruit that had tarried so late on the old tree, was shaken down at last. Softly and tenderly, the Lady Elizabeth, the young wife of Sir Robert Basset, was ministering to the last earthly needs of Philippa the aged, the sister of her husband’s grandfather. (Note 1.)
“’Tis high time, Bess, child!” whispered the dying woman, true to her character to the last. “I must have been due on the roll of Death these thirty years. I began to marvel if he had forgot me. And I am going Home, child. Thank God, I am going Home!
“They are are all safe yonder, Bess—Arthur, and Nell (Wife of Sir Arthur Basset), and little Honor, and thy little lad (Arthur, who died in infancy), and Jack, and Frances—my darling sister!—and George, and Kate, and Nan. I am assured of them, all. There be James and Mall,—well, I am not so sure of them. Would God I were! He knoweth.
“But I do hope I shall see my mother. And, O Bess! I shall see him—my blessed, beloved father—I shall see him!
“And they’ll be glad, child. They’ll all be glad when they see poor blundering old Philippa come stumbling in at the gate. I misdoubt if they look for it. They’ll be glad!
“Bess, I do hope thou wilt ne’er turn thy back upon God so many years as I have done. And I had never turned to Him at last, if He had not stooped and turned me.
“Tell Robin, with my blessing, to be a whole man for God. A whole man and a true! He is too rash—and yet not bold (true) enough. He cares too much what other folk think. (Thank God, I ne’er fell in that trap! ’Tis an ill one to find the way out.) Do thou keep him steadfast, Bess. He’ll ask some keeping. There’s work afore thee yet, child; ’tis work worthy an angel—to keep one man steadfast for God. Thou must walk close to God thyself to do it. And after all, ’twill be none of thy doing, but of His that wrought by thee.—
“And God bless the childre! I count there’s the making of a true man in little Arthur. Thou mayest oft-times tell what a child is like to be when he is but four years old. God bless him, and make him another Arthur! (Nay, I stay me not at Robin’s father, as thou dost. Another Arthur,—like that dear father of ours, whom we so loved! He is the Arthur for me.) I can give the lad no better blessing.
“Wilt draw the curtain, Bess? I feel as though I might sleep. Bless thee, dear heart, for all thy tender ministering. And if I wake not again, but go to God in sleep,—farewell, and Christ be with thee!”