Exeter Beach was divided into two distinct parts by a line of cliff jutting far out into Exeter Bay. Below the eastern face of the cliff lay the Moore estate, and then came the town; but on the west side was an inlet, backed by dense woods, and bounded on the farther extremity by another wall of rock. This was known as Lonely Cove, and deserved its title. From it one looked straight out to the open sea; no island intervened, nor was anything visible on shore save the two long arms of frowning rock, the circuit of pine coming close to the edge of drift-wood that marked the limit of the tide, and, at the far distance, a solitary house. This had once been occupied by a man who made himself a home apart from every one, and died as lonely as he lived; since then it had been deserted, and was crumbling to decay, and many believed it to be haunted.
Along this beach, about three o’clock one Christmas Eve, Jane Moore was walking. It was a dull afternoon, with a lowering sky, and a chill in the air which foreboded rain rather than snow; but, wrapped in her velvet cloak and furs of costly sable, Jane did not heed the weather.
Her heart was full to overflowing. From the first Christmas that she could remember to the one previous to his death, she had taken that walk with her father every Christmas eve, while he talked with her of the joy of the coming day, sang to her old Christmas carols, and sought to prepare her for a holy as well as a merry feast. He had tried to be father and mother both to his motherless girl, but his heart ached as he watched her self-willed, imperious nature, often only to be curbed by her extreme love for him.
“Be patient, my friend,” the old priest who knew his solicitude used to say. “It is a very noble nature. Through much suffering and failure, it may be, but surely, nevertheless, our Jane will live a grand life yet for the love of God.” And so James Moore strove to believe and hope, till death closed his eyes when his daughter was only thirteen years old.
Heiress of enormous wealth, and of a beauty which had been famous in that county for six generations, loving keenly all that was fair, luxurious, and intellectual, Jane Moore was one of the most brilliant women of her day. Dancing and riding, conversation and music—she threw herself into each pursuit by turn with the same whole-hearted abandon which had ever characterized her. Yet the priest who had baptized her, and who gave her special, prayerful care and direction, laid seemingly little check upon her. Such religious duties as were given her she performed faithfully; she never missed the daily Mass or monthly confession; not a poor cottage in the village in which she was not known and loved, though as yet she only came with smiles and money and cheery words, instead of personal tendance and real self-denial. No ball shortened her prayers, no sport hindered her brief daily meditation. The priest knew that beyond all other desires that soul sought the Lord; beyond all other loves, loved him; and that she strove, though poorly and imperfectly and with daily failure, to subject her will to the higher will of God. To have drawn the curb too tightly then might have been to ruin all; the wise priest waited, and, while he waited, he prayed.
This Christmas Eve on which Jane Moore was speeding along the beach was the last she would ever spend as a merry girl in her old home. As a wife, as a mother, she might come there again, but with Epiphany her girlhood’s days must end. Her heart, once given, had been given wholly, and Henry Everett was worthy of the gift; but the breaking of old ties told sorely upon Jane, who always made her burdens heavier than need be by her constant endeavor to gain her own will and way. Her handsome face looked dark and sallow that afternoon; the thin, quivering nostrils and compressed lips told of a storm in her heart.
“I cannot understand it,” she said aloud. “Why must I go away? Surely it was right to wish to live always in my old home among my father’s people. Why should God let Henry’s father live and live and live to be ninety years old, and he be mean and troublesome? and why should my dear father die young, when I needed him? I cannot bear to go away.”
And then came to her mind words said to her that very day—few words, but strong, out of a wise and loving heart—“God asks something from you this Christmas, in the midst of your joy, which I believe he will ask from you, in joy or sorrow, all your life long until he gets it. He wants the entire surrender of your will. I do not know how he will do it, but I am sure he will never let you alone till he has gained his end. Make it your Christmas prayer that he will teach you that his will is better and sweeter than anything our wills may crave.”
She flew faster along the beach, striving by the very motion to find relief for the swelling of her heart.
“I cannot bear it,” she cried—“to have always to do something I do not want to do! I cannot bear it. Yes, I can, and I will. God help me! But I cannot understand.”