“I think I may address thee as friend when our dear Redeemer so addressed his betrayer, Judas Iscariot. Thou askest me for comfort on the deep waters; but what comfort can there be to an alien from God? What peace can there be to the wicked? Yes! I will pray for thee! as thou desirest. I will pray earnestly that God will send thee troubles upon troubles. That he will toss thee with tempests on the ocean, and chase thee with misfortunes on land. I will pray that thou mayst suffer wrong, and robbery, and deceit, and betrayal. That thou mayst drink to the dregs of that cup of injury, and shame, and sorrow, that thou hast been so lavishly pouring out for others who should have been dear to thee as thy own soul. I forget—thy own soul is not dear to thee; more and sadder pity. I will pray for heart-soreness, and weariness of soul, for perils in cities and in deserts upon thee. For shattered prospects, ruined hopes, ruin of goods and good name, and for pursuit of measures and cruelties unto the verge of death. Mayst thou be solitary and forsaken, as thou hast left others of whom thou wert not worthy; may sickness overtake thee where there is none to tend or soothe. May the blackness and the shadow of death overtake thy soul and overwhelm thee with the terrors of hell. May its torments seize on thy vitals and consume all that is within thee of vile, and base, and unholy. And when the tempest and the earthquake have done their mission on thee, mayst thou be favoured to hear the still, small voice, which comes only to the ear opened by a pardoning God. All these woes I wish thee, not from anger or a spirit of unworthy vengeance, but from that love which is over all, and yearns after all that lives. Knowest thou not that the hard ground must first be torn up and rent in pieces by the plough and harrows of the husbandman before it can receive the seed of a new harvest? May the hard ground of thy heart, Henry Thorsby, be thus ploughed up and harrowed in sunder, for so only do I believe that it can be reduced to that soft and plastic state in which the seed of divine grace can once more grow. And that it may be so will be the daily prayer, the earnest wrestlings of the soul of one who would rejoice over thy recall to the paths of virtue and of heaven, as over a dearly beloved son. Thy friend in the truth, and the love which is indestructible and unfathomable,
“Rebecca Heritage.”
Thorsby received and read this letter in a profound silence: in silence he arose, thrust it into his pocket, and walked solemnly on board. The winds are bearing him away on a long and arduous pilgrimage. Let us leave him awhile to the unseen but ever-present hand which pursues with the scourge, but forgets not the balm.
CHAPTER IX.
ALL WRONG AT WOODBURN.
Summer was once more shining and breathing its perfumes over the country round Woodburn. The pleasant fields stood full of flower-embroidered grass; of green corn waving and billowing in the scented breeze. The trees shed their verdurous gloom beneath them; the red wild rose, and the snowy discs of the elder flowers, mingled their odours with the yellow-and-red honeysuckle blossoms in the fresh hawthorn hedges. The larks carolled high in the blue air; brooks ran glittering down to the river, and the river glided on in stately beauty. All was beautiful and happy in nature as ever, but over the Grange lay a stillness, within was a stillness. Betty Trapps, pursuing her accustomed household duties, neither sung that “very cutting” song—“Once I freedah engyed,” nor the equally favourite hymn—“We are marching through Emmanuel’s land.” Mr. Woodburn wore a grave and sad air; Mrs. Woodburn sat knitting in deep thought, or watched her cheese-making, without any of her former jollity. Ann was with Letty in Castleborough, and George was taking his solitary rides over the farm, as if something lay on his heart which had banished that cheerful countenance so natural to him. There were no preparations for any festive gathering in the hayfield. “The light of other days” had disappeared like a dream.
The conduct of Thorsby had verified all the instinctive prescience in Betty Trapps’s nature. Letty, the loved and loving creature of gladness, the sunshine of that once happy home; the flitting shape, the ringing, singing voice of joy in it, was a deserted wife, and the once jocose and sportive Thorsby, a disgraced and shameless fugitive. Nor was that all; those shadows which Mrs. Heritage had foreseen in the hayfield fête, had not only fallen on Woodburn Grange, but on other spots around. Fair Manor itself had not escaped. There was the only child there, then the hope and happiness of her house, now a serious and nervous woman, who had passed through a severe baptism, and now shrunk from intercourse beyond her own family walls. Awaking from the impassioned dreams of her London visit, she found that she had wounded another too deeply to leave peace in her own bosom. She had candidly stated to Edmund Barrington, that great as was her affection for him, she never could be happy in the consciousness of the affliction she had occasioned to a most worthy, faithful, and noble heart, nor under the sense of the deep blame, which all those most dear to her, or most connected with the attachments and the memories of her youth, awarded her. She had resolved, therefore, to do the only penance which should mark her sense of her wrong, and satisfy her innermost feeling of sacred duty—never to marry; but to devote herself as soon as her health should be restored, if indeed her shattered nerves should ever again regain their healthy tone, to the works of the good Samaritan.
Her mother had, through Mrs. Barrington, explained to that family the severe shock and shattering through which her daughter had gone, and the sensitive state of her nervous system still. She returned to Edmund Barrington the diamond-clasped bracelet which he had given Millicent, and which under no circumstances could she wear, but she entreated that all other little mutual gifts might be retained as memorials of a friendship, which both she and her daughter trusted would still and for ever remain unbroken.
It is only justice to say that these communications were received in the most beautiful spirit. Both Edmund Barrington and his sisters wrote to Millicent in the most kind and sympathizing terms. Edmund declared himself willing to await the time when full health might bring happier thoughts to Millicent, and his sisters expressed their sincere sorrow that the tender conscience of Millicent had dissipated to them so many pleasant hopes. They declared that they should never cease to recollect with pleasure the happy time of her visit, or to regret the prospect of losing her as a sister. No hope, however, was held out by Millicent of a change in her present sentiments; and in no very long time not only those amiable women, but their brother too, had selected their partners for life, and were scattered into their respective homes, amid all the solaces and distinctions of an enormous affluence.
Millicent Heritage regained her former estimation amongst her friends by a knowledge of this conscientious renunciation of all selfish happiness for herself; and the sense of this did much to renew her vigour of frame, though it did not banish the grave and thoughtful expression from her face and manner. She was often seen mounted on her favourite mare, May Dew, followed by Tom Boddily, taking her way towards the Grange, where she was always received with love by Mrs. Woodburn and by Ann, when at home, and by Mr. Woodburn and George with much kindly regard. Many, too, were her visits to Bilts’ Farm, and her long conversations with Elizabeth Drury, which seemed always to fill her with a renewed spirit of peace and satisfaction.