“But why speak of it so drearily, Agnes?” said Mr Whyte, who, mild man as he was, gave his sister-in-law’s doleful moods no quarter. “I can see cause for nothing but thankfulness in that. That Providence specially cares for those who cannot care for themselves; it is positive sunshine to think of it.”
“Ay,” said Mrs Gray, mournfully, “the minister and I always take different views; but you’ll allow, Paulus, what the Bible says its very self of this weary world. A vale of tears—a shadow that fleeth away—the valley of the shadow of death.”
“My dear Agnes,” said the vivacious Mrs Whyte, with some impatience, “I wish you would quote the chapter and verse, for I really have no recollection of the vale of tears in Scripture.”
“Elizabeth,” answered Mrs Gray, with solemnity, “the dark day has not fallen upon you yet, and I hope it may be long deferred; but it is a heavy life. The very best of it is just a succession of work and fatigue, waking and sleeping, weariness and rest. I see you agree with me, Mr Oswald. We are in a miserable world, and the sooner we are done with it the better for ourselves.”
The banker, thus appealed to, looked as much amazed as Miss Insches; he did by no means agree with Mrs Gray, but he was somewhat slow of speech, and could not manage to express his sentiments. There was a certain orthodoxy too in this view of the matter; so the honest man hesitated and looked confused, and not knowing what to say, finally said nothing.
“And Miss Buchanan, my dear,” said Mrs Gray, with an affectionate sadness, “I see I have you on my side.”
“Oh no, no, no,” said Helen eagerly, in the tremulous low voice which she always spoke in, when she was greatly moved; a voice, more than half reverie, broken now and then abruptly by a consciousness of being listened to.
“There is nothing miserable in it,” said Helen, forgetting herself, and speaking rapidly, and so low that the banker needed to bend forward before he could hear; “nothing but what we make; I think the words should be noble and grand rather, in all its light and all its gloom. It is very dark sometimes. I know there are eclipses and thunderclouds; but not miserable—no, no. It does not become us—surely it does not become us to make its changes matters of sadness; for the labour’s sake it is good to rest, and the labour itself—I think sometimes that if we had no other blessing, that would be great enough to rejoice in all our days—to have work to do under the sunshine of heaven—work for the Master—the King! I do not know; I think there is no grief that can match the joy of this.”
The nervous small fingers were clasped together, the unquiet face looking into the vacant air with shining, abstracted eyes, the head erected in eager enthusiasm; and bending forward as if to a magnet, the banker Oswald looked on.