CHANGING SEASONS.
"Life is astir beneath dead Nature's snows
Spring's quickened pulse is bounding through the earth.
Lo, in the wakened heart a life-stream flows:
Old things are dead; behold a second birth."
TIME passed on. Months had slipped away since the mind of Miles Lawson
had awakened to the consciousness of the past. But the recovery of his
bodily powers had not kept pace with the renewal of the mental. A low
fever, the natural rebound of the death-like chill, had been lying
heavily upon him, completely prostrating his strength, and refining
his rude manly frame into something too ethereal and shadow-like for a
young mountaineer.
His brown and sinewy hands had become white and almost transparent; his
cheek hollow and pale, save for the small bright spot which lighted
it up, while his eyes looked prominent and lustrous as lamps. But the
expression of his whole countenance and manner had as decidedly changed
for the better as his health had altered for the worse: the countenance
was now open, winning, and thoughtfully intelligent, instead of
sullen and unhappy: the manner was gentle and deferential, instead of
capricious and intolerant.
No one who knew anything of the changing signs of the moral
seasons—seed-time and harvest, winter and spring—could doubt these
outward evidences of the inward work of grace. That change had been
going on which is described in Scripture language as the turning from
darkness to light, from the power of Satan unto God. The depths of
repentance had been passed through, not once only, but again and again;
the sweetness of reconciliation had been known with a justly offended
God through the free and full atonement offered for sinners by the Son
sent by the Father: and thus delivered from the bondage of sin and
Satan, the new creature in Christ Jesus was seeking to live a new life
through the power of the sanctifying Spirit.
But Miles Lawson, after his many slips and wanderings, had found
it good for his soul's health to linger long in the "valley of
humiliation," and he found it to be such as John Bunyan describes it,
"as fruitful a place as any the crows fly over."
"I have known many laboring men," says Bunyan, "that have got good
estates in the valley; for indeed, it is very fruitful soil, and doth
bring forth by handfuls."
A beautiful change in the outward aspect of the dale, and in the habits
of dale life, had been going on during the same period. It is scarcely
like the same region. True, the noble outlines remain immovable—the
mountains drawing their fine forms against the sky; the lower fells
crossing each other in those graceful intersecting lines which the eye
so loves to follow; the valley biding with such shy and shady reserve
under the glooms of the projecting crags; and the stream finding its
way with its lovely curves and bends, forever humming its mountain
melodies.
But everything else has changed: the coppice wood at the mouth of the
glen is one sheet of varied and delicate greens; the rough leaves
of the hazels are intermixed with the silver stems and small bright
foliage of the birch; sycamores are shaking out their broad leaves,
creased and puckered with their tight foldings in the buds, the oaks
are sunning their finely-cut leaves; and the ashes, last to come and
first to go, are waving their sprays in the breeze; while the larches
have long ago hung out their light green tassels, and are now creeping
up the sides of the mountain with pointed crests, and in close array.
All color has changed, saving the dull dark hues of the time-worn
pines, and the grand and sombre masses of the ancestral yews: what is
the short summer of the dales to them? It may be a fleeting joy for the
ephemeral foliage around them. It may make a holiday for the golden
brooms, and the hedges of snowy thorn, and the festal plumes of the
bird cherry. It may cause a flutter of excitement in the sensitive
sprays of the aspen, and make the green moss-beds first all silvery
with snowdrops, then all golden with nodding daffodils and starry
primroses, and again all blue with bell-hung hyacinths, and pearly
with the shy wood anemone. But to them—to these dignified sires of
vegetable life, what is the fleeting influence of season? Hoary winter,
song-resounding spring, festal summer, golden autumn—these can scarcely
impart an added furrow, or wreathe their stately brows with any passing
glory.
Everything else, however, seems young and jubilant. Look at the lambs
upon the springy turf of the fells. They are playing like kittens.
No, better than that they are getting up regular games of their own.
There is system in that fun of theirs. That fat, saucy fellow, white
as snow, save for his black nose and his legs, which seem to dance all
the lighter for their little black worsted stockings—he is evidently
master of the revels. He marshals his band on the top of that old
gray rock that bares its forehead from amidst the elastic turf on the
mountainside. There are some of the young rebels who are determined to
scale the height from beneath in a wholly unauthorized way. That will
never do; the leader and his lambs line the ramparts, and butt and push
at every black nose that aspires upwards. The aspirants are beaten
back; and then down comes the whole garrison, leaping, bounding up in
the air "all fours" at once; and sweeping away the opposing force, the
whole lamb community careers away in one troop down the green slope of
the fell.
This is thought to be rather too wild work by those respectable old
ewes, who, in their staid sobriety, have altogether forgotten the days
of their youth. They lift their plain and anxious countenances from
cropping the scented turf, and, with mouths full of thyme and heath,
utter a few warning remonstrances, which only seem to stimulate the
wild frolics of the young folks. Surely they don't mean to send that
black, perfectly black lamb "to Coventry"? The insolent little rogues,
it really looks so. They won't let him join in the fun, forgetting
their own legs and noses: for they are but quadroons themselves, at the
best: and so he retires to the genial society of his mother, in whose
eyes he seems to be white and comely as a lily. Really, it is rather
trying to think that these charming lambs will grow up into those
ungainly and uninteresting old sheep.
Alice's garden is brilliant with flowers. "'Tis but a common cottage
garden," you will say: no exotics, no rare and delicate plants. But
here are England's dear old favorites, her best and choicest flowers.
What can surpass those regal "cabbage roses," so round and so full, or
those moss rose-buds growing under the lee of the white porch? Then
there are "sweet-williams," deep red and variegated, very stiff and
very handsome in their way: there are showy orange-colored lilies and
queenly white ones: there are purple columbines, and great red peonies,
and tall "Jacob's ladders," and grave "Solomon's seals": there are
graceful sweet peas clinging for support to anything they can reach;
and a little bed of spicy pinks, scenting the air like an island of the
eastern seas. The beds are all edged either with box, or with double
red and white daisies, or with the little fragile "witch's thimbles,"
chiming their small blue and white bells to every passing breeze.
But there is something going on under the broad shadow of the yew
trees. On the smooth grass-plot which spreads before Alice's rustic
seat, stands the long kitchen table, which must have been moved out
of doors for festal purposes, because it is covered with a clean
white table-cloth, and a number of chairs are placed round it. Plates
of piled-up bread and butter, cut and buttered currant "wigs," a
massive-looking cake, whose consistency is very much that of cold
"figgy pudding," a beautiful dish of ripe strawberries, dressed out
with leaves worthy of a ducal coronet *, and another dish of cherries
from off the walls of the house, furnish the entertainment. There is a
tea-tray also; and Mrs. Lawson's dozen of little old-fashioned silver
teaspoons have been taken out of the old oak chest and rubbed up for
the occasion.
* The strawberry-leaf is the ducal symbol, and is placed on the
coronet.
But who are the guests? The widow is there, sitting up in her chair
in considerable state as hostess; Alice, in simple gala costume, is
flitting about with a brilliant flush of pleased expectation on her
artless countenance; Mat is gone in to rub up his merry face until it
shines like a rosy-cheeked apple, to comb his light hair down over his
sun-burnt forehead, and to put on his best red waistcoat, with blue
glass buttons, and his bright green neck-tie. Chance and Laddie have
made no such distinguished toilette, but they are particularly on the
alert, barking little gala salvos, and pricking their ears at every
sound.
There is a sound now in the distance—a slow rumble of wheels in the
direction of Green Gap. The dogs are violently excited by this, because
a friend, a great buff sheep dog, with an enormous white plumy tail,
always comes in company with the rumbling "shandry" * from Scarf Beck
Farm. They are right in their apprehensions.
Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, a particularly comfortable, not to say
jolly-looking couple, are sitting up in the high-backed seat, with
Bella between them, and the young Hartley brothers are walking in
front. This is evidently a state visit; tea out of doors at half-past
three o'clock, and supper looming in the background at seven.
* The "travelling carriage" of the country—half-cart, half-gig.
We must have a photograph of Bella Hartley; for she is called by many,
the Queen of the Dales. She is taller by half-a-head than young Alice
Lawson, and of a far more noble figure and carriage. Her features are
finely-cut; and her head, with its bountiful profusion of bright brown
hair, sits with remarkable grace on her long neck and finely sloping
shoulders. Her dress is a simple light print, with a colored ribbon
round her throat.
Ah! there is a little story attached to that rather faded ribbon, and
some amount of sentiment; or else it would not have been selected for
this especial occasion. She has a grave, thoughtful, perhaps anxious
look; but it has not been always there. Her face was as sparkling as
her own Scarf Beck, until some twelve months ago, when, after a long
and painful talk with Miles Lawson, that care-worn expression took up
its settled abode on her lofty brow, and in her deep shadowy eyes.
On that summer evening, a year ago, she had said to him, "No, Miles,
you must give me back my promise; for I will never be the wife of a man
that I cannot trust out of my sight for half-an-hour."
And so they parted—he to grow more thoughtless and reckless than ever,
because he held himself to be an injured man; she to watch over him
from a distance with the folded hands of prayer, and to weep and mourn
in secret; while she carried before her little mountain world a brow
so calm, and a manner so serene and collected, that folks said she was
unfeeling, fickle, and heartless.
Other young farmers, and one or two land or mine agents, had paid their
court in the meantime; but no one had been even listened to. And all
the while that old faded ribbon had been lying carefully folded up in
her drawer.
What, then, can have brought about this remarkable visit? It is a
diplomatic arrangement between the "heads of houses." First of all,
Alice made a friendly call on Bella, taking with her a nosegay of spice
pinks and sweet-williams, and cursorily mentioning Miles' name some
dozen times, always in a highly favorable manner. This she considered
to be particularly skilful, and even very deep.
Then the eldest Hartley youth called to see Miles in return, and
carried home the news that "he was wasted to an atomy, and looked
as quiet like as schoolmaster himself." This report produced an
extraordinary sensation at Scarf Beck Farm; and the impression was
followed up by a ceremonious visit from old Geordie Garthwaite, with
the present of a fat little black pig from the widow Lawson to Mrs.
Hartley, which was graciously accepted, the faithful feudal emissary
taking occasion to drop sundry laudatory remarks about "young master's
talk being now as good as any sermon," and "if he went on much longer
of that fashion, he was frightened of seeing him soon a saint in
heaven; for he was right away too good for this evil world." Bella ran
off to her little chamber when she heard this, and did not appear again
that day.
Next came Old Ann, with an offering of a favorite guinea-hen for Miss
Bell, remarking "as how 'twas young master that sent it, though he
wasn't so bold as to show his face in it." This was spoken in a very
audible voice just under Bella's window. But of course the guinea-hen
walked and flew home again as soon as the hour came for sounding that
strange muezzin cry from the top of the round chimney, "Come back, come
back."
Then, at last, Mrs. Hartley ordered the shandry, and drove over to The
Yews to report the loss of the sentimental fowl. She was received with
extraordinary alacrity, and was engaged with Mrs. Lawson in the old oak
parlor, with closed doors, for a mysteriously long time. The result
of this interview was an announcement that the whole Hartley family
were coming over to tea and supper on the afternoon which has been
previously introduced.
Poor Miles evidently has not the strength or the courage to encounter
the excitements of this grand arrival. He is sitting in the deep shadow
of the pointed porch, almost justifying by his emaciated appearance and
changed expression of countenance, the eulogium and the fear expressed
by his old retainer, Geordie Garthwaite. He waits until Bella Hartley
passes by, and then nervously calls her by name; she stops and kindly
holds out her hand, "Miles, how ill you look; how changed you are!"
"God grant I may be changed indeed, Bella, for 'twas high time; and the
good of his long-suffering is, that it leads to repentance."
The tears were in her eyes in a moment, but the smile that shone
through that summer shower was a very rainbow of beauty.
"There are too many folks about for us to have a talk now, Bella; but
will you walk with me down to the alder shade by the beck after tea,
and give me your arm to help me on? For I haven't got the strength in
me to walk so far without it."
"Yes; and I will give it to you now in face of them all," said she, her
face crimsoning like a sun-rise.
He took her arm, and she led his tottering steps over to the group
beneath the yew tree. They all rose to receive them with silent respect
and sympathy. Mrs. Hartley gave him her seat on the rustic bench; but
he said, "Bella must be alongside o' me, if you please; for now that I
have found out the strength that there is in her arm, I shall want it
to lean upon for the rest of my life."
Old Geordie and Old Ann were anxiously watching the family proceedings
from the gate leading into the farm-yard; and they ever after
maintained that a great scene hereupon ensued, "that all women-folk
greeted, and all men-folk laughed, and clapped their hands."
The wicket gate had opened just before this denouement, and the
schoolmaster had dropped into the festal group. Perhaps a close
observer might have perceived that some other guest was expected, from
the flutter in Alice's manner, and her rather distracted attentions to
her friends. How ever that may be, now that Mark Wilson has taken the
empty seat, her eye never wanders towards the wicket gate any more.
Mark had come over by invitation from his present place of tarrying,
the hamlet in the neighboring valley, in order to be present at what
was fully expected to be a family betrothal; that is, if things worked
well. And that they had answered expectations, he perceived at a glance.
"Why, Miles, thou art looking a stronger and a heartier man already,
now that thy mind is at rest. God bless thee, Bella Hartley, for being
willing to trust one who has put his trust in Christ."
Tea over, Mat conducted the young Hartley's round the farm, as usual,
to see the stock. Mr. and Mrs. Hartley sat in the porch with the widow
Lawson. Bella redeemed her promise to lend her strong arm to Miles as
they slowly walked down to the alder shade, that made a bower beside
the brook, and there they communed of the painful past, of the happy
present, and of the promised future. Truly did they take sweet counsel
together, because their hope was in the Lord their God; and this was
the spirit of their prayerful resolve, "As for me, and my house, we
will serve the Lord."
What has become of the schoolmaster? And Alice, she is missing too.
Mark had said to her after tea, "You took my arm, once before,
Alice—will you take it again now?" She did not refuse; and they
have walked on beside the brook altogether forgetting that it was a
"babbler."
When they had all returned from their several walks, Mark Wilson went
up to the widow's rocking chair, and bending down, said, in a low
voice, "Mother, dost thou think thou hast two blessings to bestow?
Could'st thou bless a new son as well as a new daughter?"
"Bless the good lads; and bless the dear maidens!" was the ready reply.
"But, Mark, I can tell thee I am giving thee what I can ill afford."
"Your easy chair is never to move from where it now stands; we have
quite fixed that," whispered Bella.
"These are the children of my old age," said the widow, laying her
shaking hands on the head of Mark Wilson and Bella Hartley. "As to
Alice there, she has always been my one pet lamb. Mat is a good lad,
and I have faith to believe he will be a staff to my failing strength.
And as to thee, Miles, my eldest born, what shall I say but that, 'It
was meet we should make merry, and be glad; for this my son was dead,
and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"