And, in the Prebend’s Walk memory is more and more busy still, as I pace along its weary length solitary, alone—for, even my poor old dog had died during my absence; and what were those idle, fair-weather acquaintances, whom the world calls “friends,” to me in my grief! I am better without their company: it makes my mind unhealthy.—
So, I walk, alone with my heart and its grief!
The stately lime-trees bend as I pass them by; and, seem to sigh for her who is gone, never to return. The ruined fosse, stagnant and moss-covered, speaks of ruin and desolation. The crumbling walls that once encircled the Prebend’s residence, also reveal the slowly-sure power of the destroyer’s hand, more and more apparent each year that rolls over them.
But, the church, Norman—turretted and oaken-chancelled, is fullest of these bitter-sweet memories of my darling.
All its old-fashioned surroundings appear in keeping with my feelings:—the carved galleries, the quaint, up-standing pulpit with its massive sounding board, the monumental tablets on the walls, the open-raftered roof; and, when, sitting in the high box-pew, where I first saw her, the organ gives forth its tremulous swell—before some piercingly pitched note from the vox humana stop, cries out like a soul in agony like mine—I can almost believe I see her again sitting opposite me, her sweet madonna face bent down over her Bible, or upturned in adoration, as I then noticed it!
I feel that her unseen presence is near me, watching me from the spirit world above; or else, hovering by me, to guide my errant footsteps on the pathway to heaven and lead my thoughts, through the recollection of her faith and purity, and love, to things on high.
Would that I felt her presence always:—would that my thoughts, my actions, my life, were such as she would have had them!
It was after I had gone to the old church for the first time—it was weeks before I could have the resolution to go—that Miss Pimpernell gave me my darling’s message; touching with a tender touch on her last moments here.
She told me she had never seen or heard of so peaceful an end as hers—such fervent faith, such earnest reliance on her Saviour. She seemed to have a presentiment from the first, of her death; and, when she was told there was no hope of her recovery, she only grieved for those she left behind; and for me and my disappointment, my old friend said, chief of all.—
“I know he will be sorry,”—she said at the last.—“But, tell him that I loved him and trusted him to the end. Tell him good-bye for me, and to be good—not for my sake only, but, for God’s!”