REST FOR THE WEARY.
Therefore, arm thee for the strife
All throughout this mortal life,
Soldier now and servant true,
Earth behind, and heaven in view.
REV. I. WILLIAMS.
The first impression on arriving at Northwold was, that the danger had
been magnified. Mrs. Frost's buoyant spirits had risen at the first
respite; and though there was a weight on Mary's brow, she spoke
cheerfully, and as if able to attend to other interests, telling Louis
of her father's wish for some good workmen to superintend the mines,
and asking him to consult his friends at Illershall on the subject.
Lord Ormersfield came down encouraged by his visit to the invalid, whom
he had found dressed and able to converse nearly as usual. She begged
him to come to dinner the next day, and spend the evening with her,
promising with a smile that if he would bring Louis, their aunt should
chaperon Mary.
When the Earl went upstairs after dinner, the other three closed round
the fire, and talked in a tranquil, subdued strain, on various topics,
sometimes grave, sometimes enlivened by the playfulness inherent in two
of the party. Aunt Kitty spoke of her earlier days, and Louis and Mary
ventured questions that they would have ordinarily deemed intrusive.
Yet it was less the matter than the manner of their dialogue--the deep,
unavowed fellow-feeling and mutual reliance--which rendered it so
refreshing and full of a kind of repose. Louis felt it like the
strange bright stillness, when birds sing their clearest, fullest
notes, and the horizon reach of sky beams with the softest, brightest
radiance, just ere it be closed out by the thunder-cloud, whose first
drops are pausing to descend; and to Mary it was peace--peace which she
was willing gratefully to taste to the utmost, from the instinctive
perception that the call had come for her to brace all her powers of
self-control and fortitude; while to the dear old aunt, besides her
enjoyment of her darling's presence, each hour was a boon that she
could believe the patient or the daughter, relieved and happy.
Louis was admitted for a few minutes' visit to the sick-chamber, and
went up believing that he ought to be playful and cheerful; but he was
nearly overcome by Mrs. Ponsonby's own brightness, as she hoped that
her daughter and aunt had made themselves agreeable.
'Thank you, I never was so comfortable, not even when my foot was bad.'
'I believe you consider that a great compliment.'
'Yes, I never was so much off my own mind, nor on other people's:' and
the recollection of all he owed to Mrs. Ponsonby's kindness rushing
over him, he looked so much affected, that Mary was afraid of his
giving way, and spoke of other matters; her mother responded, and he
came away quite reassured, and believing Mrs. Frost's augury that at
the next call, the invalid would be in the drawing-room.
On the way home, however, his father overthrew such hopes, and made him
aware of the true state of the case,--namely, that this was but the
lull before another attack, which, whether it came within weeks or
days, would probably be the last.
'Does Mary know?'
'She does. She bears up nobly.'
'And what is to become of her?'
The Earl sighed deeply. 'Lima is her destiny. Her mother is bent on
it, and says that she wishes it herself; but on one thing I am
resolved: she shall not go alone! I have told her mother that I will
go with her, and not leave her without seeing what kind of home that
man has for her. Mary--the mother, I mean--persists in declaring that
he has real affection for his child, and that her presence will save
him.'
'If anything could--' broke out Louis.
'It should! it ought; but I do not trust him. I know Robert Ponsonby
as his wife has never chosen to know him. This was not a time for
disguise, and I told her plainly what I thought of risking her daughter
out there. But she called it Mary's duty--said that he was fully to be
trusted where his child was concerned, and that Mary was no stranger at
Lima, but could take care of herself, and had many friends besides
Oliver Dynevor there. But I told her that go with her I would!'
'You to take the voyage! Was not she glad?'
'I think she was relieved; but she was over-grateful and distressed,
and entreating me to be patient with him. She need not fear. I never
was a hasty man; and I shall only remember that she bears his name, and
that he is Mary's father--provided always that it is fit Mary should
remain with him. Miserable! I can understand that death may well come
as a friend--But her daughter!' he exclaimed, giving way more than he
might have done anywhere but in the dark; 'how can she endure to leave
her to such a father--to such prospects!'
'She knows it is not only to such a father that she leaves her,'
murmured Louis.
'Her words--almost her words,' said the Earl, between earnestness and
impatience; 'but when these things come to pressing realities, it is
past me how such sayings are a consolation.'
'Not if they were no more than sayings.'
There was silence. Louis heard an occasional groaning sigh from his
father, and sat still, with feelings strongly moved, and impelled to
one of his sudden and impetuous resolutions.
The next morning, he ordered his horse, saying he would bring the last
report from the Terrace.
That afternoon, Mrs. Ponsonby observed a tremulousneas in Mary's hand,
and a willingness to keep her face turned away; and, on more minute
glances, a swelling of the eyelids was detected.
'My dear,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, 'you should take a walk to-day. Pray go
out with the Conways.'
'Oh no, thank you, mamma.'
'If the cousins come in from Ormersfield, I shall tell Louis to take
you to look at his farm. It would be very good for you--My dear, what
is it?' for Mary's ears and neck, all that she could see, were crimson.
'Oh, mamma! he has been doing it again. I did not mean to have told
you--' said Mary, the strong will to be calm forcing back the tears and
even the flush.
'Nay, dear child, nothing can hurt me now. You must let me share all
with you to the last. What did you say to him?'
'I told him that I could not think of such things now,' said Mary,
almost indignantly.
'And he?'
'He begged my pardon, and said he only did it because he thought it
might be a relief to you.'
'Only; did he say 'only?'
'I am not sure. At least,' she added, with a deep sigh, 'I thought he
meant only--'
'And you, my dearest, if you had not thought he meant _only_?'
'Don't ask me, mamma; I cannot think about it!'
'Mary, dearest, I do wish to understand you.'
'Is it of any use for me to ask myself?' said Mary.
'I think it is. I do not say that there might not be insuperable
obstacles; but I believe we ought to know whether you are still
indifferent to Louis.'
'Oh, that I never was! Nobody could be!'
'You know what I mean,' said her mother, slightly smiling.
'Mamma, I don't know what to say,' replied Mary, after a pause. 'I had
thought it wrong to let my thoughts take that course; but when he spoke
in his own soft, gentle voice, I felt, and I can't help it,
that--he--could--comfort--me--better--than--any one.'
Not hesitating, but slowly, almost inaudibly, she brought out the
words; and, as the tears gushed out irrepressibly with the last, she
hastened from the room, and was seen no more till she had recovered
composure, and seemed to have dismissed the subject.
Louis kept this second attempt a secret; he was not quite sure how he
felt, and did not wish to discuss his rejection. At breakfast, he
received a note from Mrs. Ponsonby, begging him to come to the Terrace
at three o'clock; and the hope thus revived made him more
conversational than he had been all the former day.
He found that Mary was out walking, and he was at once conducted to
Mrs. Ponsonby's room, where he looked exceedingly rosy and confused,
till she began by holding out her hand, and saying, 'I wish to thank
you.'
'I am afraid I vexed Mary,' said Louis, with more than his usual
simplicity; 'but do you think there is no hope? I knew it was a bad
time, but I thought it might make you more at ease on her account.'
'You meant all that was most kind.'
'I thought I might just try,' pursued he, disconsolately, 'whether she
did think me any steadier. I hope she did not think me very
troublesome. I tried not to harass her much.'
'My dear Louis, it is not a question of what you call steadiness. It
is the old story of last summer, when you thought us old ones so much
more romantic than yourself.'
'You are thinking of Miss Conway,' said Louis, blushing, but with
curious naivete. 'Well, I have been thinking of that, and I really do
not believe there was anything in it. I did make myself rather a fool
at Beauchastel, and Jem would have made me a greater one; but you know
my father put a stop to it. Thinking her handsomer than other people
can't be love, can it?'
'Not alone, certainly.'
'And actually,' he pursued, 'I don't believe I ever think of her when I
am out of the way of her! No, indeed! if I had not believed that was
all over, do you think I could have said what I did yesterday?'
'Not unless you believed so.'
'Well, but really you don't consider how little I have seen of her. I
was in awe of her at first, and since, I have kept away on purpose. I
never got on with her at all till the other evening. I don't believe I
care for her one bit. Then,' suddenly pausing, and changing his tone,
'you don't trust me after all.'
'I do. I trust your principle and kindness implicitly, but I think the
very innocence of your heart prevents you from knowing what you are
about.'
'It is very hard,' said Louis; 'every one will have it that I must be
in love, till I shall have to believe so myself, and when I know it
cannot come to good.'
'You are making yourself more simple than you really are,' said Mra.
Ponsonby, half provoked.
Louis shut his eyes, and seemed to be rousing his faculties; then,
taking a new turn, he earnestly said, 'You know that the promises must
settle the question, and keep my affections fast.'
'Ah, Louis! there is the point. Others, true and sincere as yourself,
have broken their own hearts, and those of others, from having made
vows in wilful ignorance of latent feelings. It would be a sin in me
to allow you to bind yourself to Mary, with so little comprehension as
you have of your own sentiments.'
'Then I have done wrong in proposing it.'
'What would have been wrong in some cases, was more of blindness--ay,
and kindness--in you. Louis, I cannot tell you my gratitude for your
wish to take care of my dear girl,' she said, with tears in her eyes.
'I hope you fully understand me.'
'I see I have made a fool of myself again, and that you have a right to
be very angry with me.'
'Not quite,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, smiling, 'but I am going to give you
some advice. Settle your mind as to Miss Conway. Your father is
beginning to perceive that his distrust was undeserved; he has promised
me not to object in case it should be for your true happiness; and I do
believe, for my own part, that, in some respects, she is better fitted
for his daughter-in-law than my poor Mary.'
'No one ever was half as good as Mary!' cried Louis. 'And this is what
you tell me!'
'Mind, I don't tell you to propose to her, nor to commit yourself in
any way: I only tell you to put yourself in a position to form a
reasonable judgment of your own feelings. That is due to her, to
yourself, and to your wife, be she who she may.'
Louis sighed, and presently added, smiling, 'I am not going to rave
about preferences for another; but I do want to know whether anything
can be done for poor Jem Frost.'
'Ha! has he anything of this kind on his mind?'
'He does it in grand style--disconsolate, frantic, and frosty; but he
puzzles me completely by disclosing nothing but that he has no hope,
and thinks me his rival. Can nothing be done?'
'No, Louis,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, decidedly; 'I have no idea that there
is anything in that quarter. What may be on his mind, I cannot tell: I
am sure that he is not on Mary's.'
Louis rose. 'I have tired you,' he said, 'and you are very patient
with my fooleries.'
'You have been very patient with many a lecture of mine, Louis.'
'There are very few who would have thought me worth lecturing.'
'Ah, Louis! if I did not like you so well for what you are, I should
still feel the right to lecture you, when I remember the night I
carried you to your father, and tried to make him believe that you
would be his comfort and blessing. I think you have taught him the
lesson at last!'
'You have done it all,' said Louis, with deep feeling.
'And now, may I say what more I want to see in you? If you could
acquire more resolution, more manliness--will you pardon my saying so?'
'Ah! I have always found myself the identical weak man that all books
give up as a hopeless case,' said Louis, accepting the imputation more
easily than she could have supposed possible.
'No,' she said, vigorously, 'you have not come to your time of life
without openings to evil that you could not have resisted if you had
been really weak.'
'Distaste--and rather a taste for being quizzed,' said Louis.
'Those are not weakness. Your will is indolent, and you take refuge in
fancying that you want strength. Rouse yourself, not to be drifted
about--make a line for yourself.'
'My father will have me walk in no line but his own.'
'You have sense not to make duty to him an excuse for indolence and
dislike of responsibility. You have often disappointed yourself by
acting precipitately; and now you are throwing yourself prone upon him,
in a way that is unwise for you both.'
'I don't know what to do!' said Louis. 'When I thought the aim of my
life was to be to devote myself to his wishes, you--ay, and he
too--tell me to stand alone.'
'It will be a disappointment to him, if you do not act and decide for
yourself--yes, and worse than disappointment. He knows what your
devotional habits are; and if he sees you wanting in firmness or
energy, he will set down all the rest as belonging to the softer parts
of your nature.'
'On the contrary,' exclaimed Louia, indignantly, 'all the resolution I
ever showed came from nothing else!'
'I know it. Let him see that these things make a man of you; and,
Louis--you feel what a difference it might make!'
Louis bowed his head thoughtfully.
'You, who are both son and daughter to him, may give up schemes and
pleasures for his sake, and may undertake work for which you have no
natural turn; but, however you may cross your inclinations, never be
led contrary to your judgment. Then, and with perseverance, I think
you will be safe.'
'Perseverance--your old lesson.'
'Yes; you must learn to work over the moment when novelty is gone and
failure begins, even though your father should treat the matter as a
crotchet of your own. If you know it is worth doing, go on, and he
will esteem you and it.'
'My poor private judgment! you work it hard! when it has generally only
run me full-drive into some egregious blunder!'
'Not your true deliberate judgment, exercised with a sense of
responsibility. Humility must not cover your laziness. You have such
qualities and such talents as must be intended to do good to others,
not to be trifled away in fitful exertions. Make it your great effort
to see clearly, and then to proceed steadfastly, without slackening
either from weariness or the persuasions of others.'
'And you won't let me have the one person who can see clearly, and keep
me steady?'
'To be your husband, instead of your wife! No, Louis; you must learn
to take yourself on your own hands, and lean neither on your father,
nor on any one else on earth, before you can be fit for Mary, or--'
'And if I did?' began Louis.
'You would make a man of yourself,' she said, interrupting him. 'That
is the first thing--not a reed shaken with the wind. You can do it;
there is nothing that Grace cannot do.'
'I know there is not,' said Louis, reverently.
'And, oh! the blessing that you would so bring on yourself and on your
dear father! You have already learnt to make him happier than I ever
looked to see him; and you must be energetic and consistent, that so he
may respect, not you, but the Power which can give you the strength.'
Louis's heart was too full to make any answer. Mrs. Ponsonby lay back
in her chair, as though exhausted by the energy with which she had
spoken the last words; and there was a long silence. He thought he
ought to go, and yet could not resolve to move. At last she
spoke--'Good-bye, Louis. Come what may, I know Mary will find in you
the--all that I have found your father.'
'Thank you, at least, for saying that,' said Louis. 'If you would only
hold out a hope--I wish it more than ever now! I do not believe that I
should ever do as well with any one else! Will you not give me any
prospect?'
'Be certain of your own heart, Louis! Nay,' as she saw his face
brighten, 'do not take that as a promise. Let me give you a few
parting words, as the motto I should like to leave with you--'Quit
yourselves like men; be strong.' And so, Louis, whatever be your fixed
and resolute purpose, so it be accordant with the Will of Heaven, you
would surely, I believe, attain it, and well do you know how I should
rejoice to see'--She broke off, and said, more feebly, 'I must not go
on any longer. Let me wish you good-bye, Louis: I have loved you only
less than my own child!'
Louis knelt on one knee beside her, held her hand, and bowed down his
face to hide the shower of tears that fell, while a mother's kiss and a
mother's blessing were on his brow.
He went down stairs, and out of the house, and took his horse from the
inn stables, without one word to any one. The ostlers said to each
other that the young Lord was in great trouble about the lady at the
Terrace.
Mary came home; and if she knew why that long walk had been urged on
her, she gave no sign. She saw her mother worn and tired, and she
restrained all perception that she was conscious that there had been
agitation. She spoke quietly of the spring flowers that she had seen,
and of the people whom she had met; she gave her mother her tea, and
moved about with almost an increase of the studied quietness of the
sick-room. Only, when Mrs. Frost came in for an hour, Mary drew back
into a corner with her knitting, and did not speak.
'Mary,' said her mother, when she came back from lighting her aunt down
stairs, 'come to me, my child.'
Mary came, and her mother took both her hands. They were chilly; and
there was a little pulse on Mary's temple that visibly throbbed, and
almost seemed to leap, with fearful rapidity.
'Dear child, I had no power to talk before, or I would not have kept
you in suspense. I am afraid it will not do.'
'I was sure of it,' said Mary, almost in a whisper. 'Dear mamma, you
should not have vexed and tired yourself.'
'I comforted myself,' said Mrs. Ponsonby; 'I said things to him that I
had longed to say, and how beautifully he took them! But I could not
feel that he knew what he was about much better than he did the first
time.'
'It would not be right,' said Mary, in her old tone.
'I think your father might have been persuaded. I would have written,
and done my utmost--'
'Oh, mamma, anything rather than you should have that worry!'
'And I think things will be different--he is softened, and will be more
so. But it is foolish to talk in this way, and it may be well that the
trial should not be made; though that was not the reason I answered
Louis as I did.'
'I suppose it will be Miss Conway,' said Mary, trying to smile.
'At least, it ought to be no one else till he has seen enough of her to
form a judgment without the charm of prohibition; and this he may do
without committing himself, as they are so nearly connected. I must
ask his father to give him distinct permission, and then I shall have
done with these things.'
Mary would not break the silence, nor recall her to earthly interests;
but she returned to the subject, saying, wistfully, 'Can you tell me
that you are content, dear child?'
'Quite content, thank you, mamma--I am certain it is right,' said Mary.
'It would be taking a wrong advantage of his compassion. I fall too
far short of what would be wanted to make him happy.'
She spoke firmly, but her eyes were full of tears. Her mother felt as
if no one could fail of happiness with Mary, but, controlling the
impulse, said, 'It is best, dearest; for you could not bear to feel
yourself unable to make him happy, or to fancy he might have more peace
without you. My dear, your prospect is not all I could have wished or
planned, but this would be too cruel.'
'It is my duty to go to papa,' said Mary. 'What would be selfish could
not turn out well.'
'If you could be sure of his feelings--if he were only less strangely
youthful--No,' she added, breaking off, as if rebuking herself, 'it is
not to be thought of, but I do not wonder at you, my poor Mary--I never
saw any one so engaging, nor in whom I could place such confidence.'
'I am so glad!' said Mary, gratefully. 'You used not to have that
confidence.'
'I feared his being led. Now I feel as sure as any one can dare of his
goodness. But I have been talking to him about self-reliance and
consistency. He is so devoid of ambition, and so inert and diffident
when not in an impetuous fit, that I dread his doing no good as well as
no evil.'
Mary shook her head. Did she repress the expression of the sense that
her arm had sometimes given him steadiness and fixed his aim?'
'The resemblance to his mother struck me more than ever,' continued
Mrs. Ponsonby. 'There is far more mind and soul, but almost the same
nature--all bright, indolent sweetness, craving for something to lean
on, but he shows what she might have been with the same principles.
Dear boy! may he do well!'
'He will be very happy with Miss Conway,' said Mary. 'She will learn
to appreciate all he says and does--her enthusiasm will spur him on. I
shall hear of them.'
The unbreathed sigh seemed to be added to the weight of oppression on
Mary's patient breast; but she kept her eye steady, her brow unruffled.
All the joys did indeed appear to be passing from her with her mother,
and she felt as if she should never know another hour of gladness, nor
of rest in full free open-hearted confidence, but she could not dwell
either on herself or on the future, and each hour that her mother was
spared to her was too precious to be wasted or profaned by aught that
was personal.
Mrs. Ponsonby herself realized the weary soon to be at rest, the
harassed well nigh beyond the reach of troubling. She treated each
earthly care and interest as though there were peace in laying it down
for the last time. At intervals, as she was able, she wrote a long
letter to her husband, to accompany the tidings of her death; and she
held several conversations with Mary on her conduct for the future.
She hoped much from Mary's influence, for Mr. Ponsonby was fond of his
daughter, and would not willingly display himself in his worst colours
before her; and Mary's steadiness of spirits and nerves might succeed,
where her own liability to tears and trembling had always been a
provocation. Her want of judgment in openly preferring her own
relations to his uncongenial sister had sown seeds of estrangement and
discord which had given Mrs. Ponsonby some cause for self-reproach, and
she felt great hope that her daughter would prevail where she had
failed. There was little danger that he would not show Mary affection
enough to make her home-duties labours of love; and at her age, and
with her disposition, she could both take care of herself, and be an
unconscious restraint on her father. The trust and hope that she would
be the means of weaning her father from evil, and bringing him home a
changed man, was Mrs. Ponsonby's last bright vision.
As to scruples on Lord Ormersfield becoming Mary's escort on the
voyage, Mrs. Ponsonby perceived his determination to be fixed beyond
remonstrance. Perhaps she could neither regret that her daughter
should have such a protector, nor bear to reject his last kindness; and
she might have lingering hopes of the consequences of his meeting her
husband, at a time when the hearts of both would be softened.
These matters arranged, she closed out the world. Louis saw her but
once again, when other words than their own were spoken, and when the
scene brought back to him a like one which had seemed his own farewell
to this earth. His thread of life was lengthened--here was the moment
to pray that it might be strengthened. Firm purpose was wakening
within him, and the battle-cry rang again in his ears--'Quit yourselves
like men; be strong!'
His eye sought Mary. She looked, indeed, like one who could 'suffer
and be strong.' Her brow was calm, though as if a load sat on her,
borne too patiently to mar her peace. The end shone upon her, though
the path might be hid in gloom: one step at a time was enough, and she
was blest above all in her mother's good hope.
A hush was on them all, as though they were watching while a tired,
overtasked child sank to rest.
There was a space of suffering, when Mary and Miss Mercy did all that
love could do, and kept Mrs. Frost from the sight of what she could
neither cheer nor alleviate, and when all she could do was to talk over
the past with Lord Ormersfield.
Then came a brief interval of relief and consciousness, precious for
ever to Mary's recollection. The last words of aught beneath were--'My
dearest love to your father. Tell him I know now how much he has to
forgive.'
The tender, impulsive, overhasty spirit had wrought for itself some of
the trials that had chastened and perfected it, even while breaking
down the earthly tabernacle, so as to set free the weary soul, to enter
into Rest!