On this steep pathway, which, with prayers, I climb,
I pause a moment—as a traveller might,
Weary and footsore, and in dusty plight,
Hearing, far off, the clear, melodious chime
Of bells that mark the swiftly passing time:
Then, as he pauses on the beetling height,
Through filming distance fixes his keen sight
On one faint speck, his starting point at prime,
And takes fresh courage for the sharp ascent—
Thus do I pause to-day; my steadfast eye
Fixed on that point of time, in which doth lie
The germ of all which can my soul content;
On which my waking thoughts, my dreams, are bent:
Then, turn where life’s still summits touch th’ eternal sky.
THE HOUSE OF YORKE.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BY.
It is well for us that faith is able to decipher what De Quincey calls “the hieroglyphic meanings of human suffering”; and that, though the interpretation should not at once be made plain to us, we may, at least, be sure that it is merciful. As St. Peter stands supreme, holding in his hand the shining keys of heaven, which none but he can set in the wards, and none but he can turn, so to each Christian on earth is given the golden key to a personal heaven, and none but he can open the door, and none but he can close it. Within that door sits the interpreter, and when the soul is still it hears his voice reading, with praise and amen, both day and night: and some riddles he makes clear, and on some he sets the seal with the Holy Name; and that is God’s secret, and one day he will speak to the soul concerning it. He who seeks to tear away that seal finds only darkness and confusion; but he who folds his hands above it will at last be illuminated.
Never once during his trial had Dick Rowan rebelled against God, or questioned him. Nature might writhe in pain, and forget for a time the words of praise, but it submitted; and, according to the tumult and darkness that had prevailed, so were the light and peace that followed. It was thorough work, as all the work in this soul had been from the first, and his convalescence was like a new birth.
On the morning after Edith’s parting with Carl Yorke, Dick remained in his room unvisited, keeping all his strength for that first drive. At length the carriage came to the door, and Mr. Williams, who had insisted on remaining at home to superintend what he called the “launching” of his step-son, came down-stairs with Dick. Mrs. Williams, all smiles, followed after, rustling in silks donned in honor of this great occasion. Edith and Ellen Williams stood in the entry, awaiting the little procession. Miss Ellen, blushing and bedizened, was to accompany the two on their drive. Edith had preferred to stay at home and prepare for her evening exodus to Hester’s.
“Why, Dick, you look like an Esquimaux!” she exclaimed. “I cannot even see your nose. How are you to get any fresh air?”
He laughed. “I told mother that I could not breathe anything but fur; but she is a tyrant.”