FAREWELLS
During these busy weeks Mrs. Bolton had looked on in almost sullen
silence, except when now and then she had broken out into a passionate
invective of her nephew's madness. He had never been indifferent to the
luxuries and refinements that give a charm to life, and her nature could
not comprehend how all these were poisoned at their source for him. He
was eager to exchange them for a chance of a true home, however lowly
that home might be. He would willingly have gone to the wilds of
Siberia, if by so doing he could secure his wife's reformation An almost
feverish haste possessed him. To carry her away from Upton, from
England, and to enter upon a quite new career in a strange place, and to
accomplish this plan quickly, absorbed him nearly to the exclusion of
any other thought. Mrs. Bolton felt herself very much neglected and
greatly aggrieved. Her plans were frustrated and her comforts
threatened, yet her nephew hardly seemed to think of her--he for whom
she had done so much, who would not have been even rector of Upton but
for the late archdeacon.
Yet she relented a little from her displeasure as the day for parting
came. She was as fond of him and his boy as her nature would allow.
Sophy had never been otherwise than an object of her jealousy, and now
she positively detested her. But when Mr. Chantrey came on the last
evening to sit an hour or two with her, and she saw, as with
newly-opened eyes, his care-worn face and wearied, feeble frame, her
heart quite melted toward him.
"Remember," she said, eagerly, "you can come back again whenever yon
choose, as soon as you grow sure how useless this mad scheme is. I wish
I could have persuaded you to keep on your living, but yon are too
wilful. You are welcome to draw upon me for funds to return at any time,
and I shall supply them gladly, and give you a home here. If yon find
your expectations fail, promise me to come back."
"And bring Sophy with me?" he asked, with almost a smile.
"No, no," she answered, shrinking involuntarily from the idea of having
her in her house. "Oh, my poor boy! what can yon do?"
"I can only bear the burden sin lays upon me," he said. "It is not
permitted to us to shake off the iniquities of others. All of us, more
or less, must share in the sufferings of Christ, bearing our portion of
the sins of the world, which he bore, even unto death. I am ready to
die, if that will save my poor Sophy from her sin.
"But all that makes a Christian life so miserable!" exclaimed Mrs.
Bolton.
"If in this life only we have hope in Christ, then are we of all men
most miserable," he answered.
"And you would teach that we must give up everything," she cried, "all
advantages, and blessings, and innocent indulgences, and pleasures of
every kind?"
"If the sins or temptations of those about call for such a sacrifice, we
must give them up, every one," he replied; "they are no longer blessings
or innocent indulgences. If God calls upon us to make some sacrifice,
and we refuse to do it, do you think he will yield like some weak
parent, who will suffer his child to run the risk of serious injury
rather than give him present pain? The whole law of our life is
sacrifice, as it was the law of Christ's life. It is possible that some
small self-denial at the right moment may spare us some costly expiation
later on. Christianity must perish if it loses sight of this law."
Mrs. Bolton did not answer him. Was he thinking of her own refusal to
remove temptation out of the way of his wife when she first began to
fall into her fatal habit? He was not in reality thinking of her at all,
but her conscience pricked her, though her pride kept her silent. It was
such an unheard-of course for a person in her station, that none but
fanatics could expect her to take it. Quixotic, irrational, eccentric,
visionary, were words that flitted incoherently through her brain; but
her tongue refused to utter them. Was Christ then so prudent, so
cautious, so anxious to secure innocent indulgences and to grasp worldly
advantages? Could she think of Him making life easy and comfortable to
Himself while hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of unhappy souls were
hurrying each year into misery and ruin?
There was not much conversation between her and her nephew; for as a
parting draws very near, our memories refuse to serve us, and we forget
to say the many, many things we may perhaps never again have any season
for saying. They bade one another farewell tenderly and sorrowfully; and
he went out, under the tranquil, starry sky, to wander once more beside
the grave of his little child, and under the old gray walls of his
church. He had not known till now how hard the trial would be. Up to
this time he had been kept incessantly occupied with the numberless
arrangements necessary for so great a change; but these were all
completed. He had said farewell to his people; but the aching of his own
great personal grief and shame had prevented him from feeling that
separation too forcibly. But the stir and excitement were over for the
hour. Here there were no cold, curious eyes fastened upon him; no fear
of any harsh voice putting into words of untimely lamentation the
unacknowledged reason of his departure. The beloved familiar places, so
quiet yet so full of associations to him, had full power over his
spirit; and he could not resist them. The very ivy-leaves rustling
against the tower, and the low, sleepy chirp of the little birds
disturbed by his tread, were dear to him. What, then, was the church
itself, every lineament of which he knew as well as if they were the
features of a friend? It was a beautiful old church; but if it had been
the homeliest and barest building ever erected, he must still have
mourned over the pulpit, where he had taught his people; the pews, where
their listening faces were lifted up to him; the little vestry, where he
had spent so many peaceful hours. And the small mound, blooming with
flowers, under which his child slept, how much power had that over him!
He paced restlessly up and down beneath the solemn yew-trees, his heart
breaking over them all. To-morrow by this time he would have left them
far behind him; and never more would his eyes behold them, or his feet
tread the path he had so often trod. They seemed to cry to him like
living, sentient things. To and fro he wandered, while the silent stars
and the waning moon, lying low in the sky above the church, looked down
upon him with a pale and mournful light. At last the morning came; and
he remembered that to-day he must quit them all, and sail for a far-off
country.
The vessel Mr. Chantrey had chosen for the long voyage was a merchant
ship, sailing for Melbourne, under a captain who had been an early
friend of his own, and who knew the reason for his leaving England. No
other cabin passengers had taken berths on board her, though there were
a few emigrants in the steerage. Captain Scott, himself a water-drinker,
had arranged that no intoxicating beverages, in any form, should appear
in the saloon. The steward was strictly forbidden to supply them to any
person except Mr. Chantrey himself. This enforced abstinence, the
complete change of scene, and the fresh sea-breezes during the
protracted voyage, he reckoned upon as the best means of restoring his
wife to health of body and mind. Ann Holland, too, would watch over her
as vigilantly and patiently as himself; and Charlie would be always at
hand to amuse her with his boyish chatter. A bright hope was already
dawning upon him.