To soothe and calm the bed of death,
And wing to Thee the parting breath,
To bid the hearts that faint and grieve
Look on Thine angel face, and live,
And love, and succour all I see,
Father to them, and child to Thee;
Oh! more than bliss! is this my lot,
My God, and shall I thank Thee not?
SEWELL’S SACRED THOUGHTS.
Reginald St. Maur had returned to Clare Abbey a day or two before
the expiration of the fortnight allowed for Camilla’s absence.
Arrangements in which Lord Vere was much interested, and which had
awaited only his coming of age to be concluded, had called him to
London; and during his stay in London, business had occupied much
of his time. But during that fortnight also, other arrangements had
been made which led to the fulfilment of one of his many dreams, and
the gratification of his highest ambition. A seat in Parliament was
about to become vacant, Reginald had been invited to offer himself
as a candidate, and there was little uncertainty in the prospect of
success held out by his own sanguine heart. He returned to his home
full of hope and animation and vigour. Life, even in a fuller sense
than may commonly be said, was opening upon him; for it was a life
in which the best feelings of a noble nature, and the energies of a
lofty intellect were to be employed. His mother received him with a
smile sweeter than usual, and for him her smile was always sweet. The
absence of both her children had caused a sense of vacancy for the
first time in her mind, and there was even animation in her welcome.
His father said little, but looked at him much; day by day love was
striking deeper roots in his heart, day by day ambition was pushing
forth higher shoots--the fire of youth was kindling anew in his soul,
caught from the brightness of Reginald’s beaming eye.
Early on the morning after his return, Reginald walked down to visit
Ernest de Grey, and together they proceeded to inspect the progress
of the works, now for some weeks in operation, at the church. From
the moment in which he had first undertaken it, his interest in the
plan had never flagged. Ernest’s patience had given way again and
again before the objections of the architect, the many difficulties,
the wearisome delays; but Reginald, with unfailing interest and
unfailing patience, had persisted till all were overcome. He was
this morning full of excitement, full of ideas, full of schemes for
various ornaments and decorations.
The workmen were engaged in clearing away a quantity of stone and
plaister, with which a window, discovered only in the progress of the
works, had long been concealed.
“How beautiful,” Reginald exclaimed, as the form of the window began
to appear,--“but how slowly they work--I feel as if one touch of my
hands would clear it all away.”
Ernest shook his head, with a smile and a glance at the not
effeminate, yet not very workman-like, fingers of his companion.
“Don’t you feel anxious to be at work, Ernest?” he began again, with
unusual animation in his tone, “I have hardly patience to stand idle.”
Ernest coloured, and turned away to avoid answering. Always truth
itself, he would not profess an interest which he was conscious he
did not feel. Though in some slight degree aroused by Reginald’s
return, too conscious he was that day after day was passing in
listless languor, and that he had regarded the fulfilment of this
once cherished hope with indifference.
For Ernest was miserable and repining still--most miserable, because
repining. He could not resign the treasure which yet eluded his
grasp--he could not submit to the lot against which it yet was in
vain to struggle;--the sense of failure, the weight of humiliation,
fretted his spirit, but did not lead him to reformation and
repentance,--and therefore no tranquil fruits of repentance came.
His heart was in a state of warfare; and being at war with himself,
he was at war with others also. Trifling annoyances, which once he
would have passed over with a smile, worried him beyond endurance.
His temper was becoming impatient and irritable--he so tender and
considerate of the feelings of others, was allowing himself to return
hasty answers--to resent the inquisitiveness of his curate, the
officiousness of his housekeeper, the mistakes of all about him. At
war with himself, his whole life was becoming hateful; the present
fretted, the past shamed, the future--a long course of preaching and
teaching--a cheerless home--a loveless heart--appalled him; once
again he shrank from his existence, as on the dreary November night
in his wayward youth.
Reginald looked at him with some curiosity. His attachment to
Ernest made him quicksighted, where otherwise his attention would
not have been caught. Long and long he had read Ernest’s feeling
for his sister, and though Camilla had feared to make a confession,
he had not been without suspicion of the effects of that evening
walk. Hearing nothing, it had passed from his mind, but something
in Ernest’s manner this morning renewed it again. His attention
was, however, for the moment withdrawn by a fall of whitewashed
stones, which brought to light almost the whole graceful and fragile
framework of the window.
“Look Ernest,” he exclaimed excitedly, “where can the inhuman monster
have been born who was guilty of this sacrilege? One can hardly
conceive the feelings of those who failed to perceive beauty such as
this! See how even the workmen pause to admire!” He stopped, then
turning to Ernest continued more thoughtfully, “I am half afraid,
Ernest, that this church will be a temptation to me--I do really
think, that when once it has been simply and judiciously restored, I
might make a better use of my time and money, than to lavish ornament
upon it; but my _inclination_ is the other way. I should like to
have it perfect within and without, and some of the decorations and
ornaments that are now used are in themselves so beautiful and full
of meaning. I was strongly tempted in London the other day.”
“I think,” Ernest replied, after a moment’s thought, “that it
would be a temptation, and should be resisted. I do not say so
because my own taste is in favour of simplicity, for in great
towns, where luxury of every description is lavished on private
houses, I can allow that something of the same kind may be suitable
and even demanded for churches; but in country places it is
otherwise--anything of gaudy or rich decoration, seems to me to be
out of keeping with the simplicity of country life, and would, I
think, be more likely to dissipate than awe the minds of ignorant
villagers. I may, however, be prejudiced, and speak too much from
my own feelings. To me there is very little solemnity in a richly
ornamented church.”
“No, Ernest, I think you are right;” nevertheless, a moment
afterwards, Reginald was expatiating with much zest on some of those
same ornaments which had attracted his attention.
He paused, attracted again by his companion’s abstraction. Having
given his opinion, Ernest’s mind was wandering--it was always
wandering, and always in one direction; much occupation now had his
thoughts in speculating on his approaching meeting with Camilla, in
tormenting himself with fancied coldness, in imagining contempt and
scorn. He was far away, bowed before her glance, while Reginald spoke.
“Are you ill, Ernest?” Reginald suddenly inquired, laying his hand on
his shoulder--a movement that with him denoted peculiar affection.
Ernest started and coloured, but laughed, “No, not ill; I am never
ill.”
“Ill in mind then, Ernest,--you are not happy.”
Ernest hesitated. “If I am not,” he said, at last, “it is no matter;
it is not a subject worth your attention or your interest.”
“All things that interest you, interest me,” Reginald exclaimed
warmly; “and Ernest,” he continued after a moment’s thought,
colouring slightly, and speaking with some difficulty, “is it quite
true that this subject does not interest me?--if you allowed it,
might I not guess what cause it is that troubles you?”
“You might, but do not guess,” Ernest said hurriedly, wincing at the
bare idea of Reginald’s approaching his griefs. Recovering himself,
he went on with seriousness, and something of sadness too. “All
men have their peculiar trials and temptations, and they are best
borne with and overcome alone. Some are of a kind that will not
bear the light of day--mine cannot. Do not think me ungracious,” he
added again, struck and touched by the affectionate expression of
Reginald’s countenance; “if I thought of your kindness less, I should
say more, and thank you more.”
Reginald refrained; though fearful of his sister’s present
indifference, he longed, as he had longed a thousand times before, to
say; “Go, and prosper”--but his nature required invitation, to offer
even words of sympathy and encouragement.
Roused by Reginald’s scrutiny, and anxious to escape from it, Ernest
exerted himself to speak, and recurred again to the subject of the
church. In the course of conversation, a discussion arose, which
made an inspection of the original plan advisable, and Ernest left
Reginald in the churchyard, while he returned to the parsonage to
hunt out the plan in question.
The search occupied him for a few minutes, for somewhat listlessly he
was turning over his papers, when suddenly, and without leave, his
door opened, and Mrs. Cook presented herself.
She looked bewildered and alarmed. “There’s been a haccident, sir,--a
sad haccident!”
“Has there,” Ernest exclaimed, hastily dropping his papers,
“where?--can I be of any use?”
She came close to him, and laid her finger on his arm. “It’s my
belief, your honour, that the young Lord is dead.”
How the distance between his own house and the churchyard was passed
Ernest could not tell--it seemed as if one step, one single moment,
placed him kneeling beside the senseless, bleeding, mangled form,
which he had left in the pride of life a few short minutes before.
As much as ever was known of the cause of the accident and its
circumstances, was related by one of the rough, honest workmen, as he
stood sorrowfully over Ernest and his friend.
“How it comes about, your honour, was this;--he stood for a while
after you went away, then he comed up nigh to us, and after a bit he
climbed up a ladder, as I’ll venture to say he never a done afore;
and then he gived a shove to them there stones with his delicate
fingers, and the ladder went this way and that way, and afore any
could see it was back’ards on the ground, and them there pile of
stones followed arter him; and it was no fault of nobody’s,” he added
reverently, “but only the hand of God that struck him down.”
The stones had been removed from Reginald’s limbs before Ernest’s
return, and a single glance told him that even if life was spared,
the use of life was gone. One leg was completely shattered by the
fall.
Ernest was gifted with the invaluable quality of presence of mind.
A very few minutes sufficed to make every needful arrangement,--to
despatch messengers on horseback in different directions in search of
medical advice, to send Mr. Hervey to Clare Abbey, and to prepare a
litter for Reginald’s removal thither.
His first idea had been to remove him only to the parsonage, but
there was so much of death in the pale face before him, that after
one moment’s consideration, he decided on taking him, while yet
removal was possible, to die in his own home.
Insensible, yet quivering with agony, they placed him on the litter,
and so the hopeful heir of a noble house re-entered the home of his
father.
That home was a scene of confusion and dismay. The servants idolized
Reginald, and stood paralyzed with sorrow. Lady Vere, to whom, with
much feeling and judgment, Mr. Hervey had broken the news, unable to
be withheld, rushed out to meet her son, and swooned at the sight.
Lord Vere, pale, stern, and immovable, contemplated the fallen
flower of his hope, then turned away to master or be mastered by his
agony alone. On Ernest the burden of responsibility fell; to Ernest
every eye looked, and every tongue appealed; and, heart-broken as he
was, he was equal to his task.
* * * * *
Two of the messengers had been successful in their search, and within
two hours’ time Reginald’s fate had been heard from the lips of two
physicians.
He returned to consciousness shortly before their arrival, his mind
clear and sound amid the destruction of the body; but, though he
smiled more than once, he did not speak.
The examination was short, and immediately on its conclusion the
physicians left the room.
“Follow them, Ernest,” Reginald then said, in a faint but calm voice,
“and learn my fate. I will hear it from your lips.”
He followed them. They were standing in a recess of the long
corridor, in deep consultation. A strange flash of childish
recollection, coming as such things will at most unwonted times,
passed across Ernest’s mind as he joined them. That recess had been
his own, the receptacle of his most cherished toys, and with the
vividness of reality he saw it once again filled with tokens of those
vanished days. He passed his hand dreamily before his eyes, to dispel
a vision which even at that moment came redolent of joy,--and then in
a few words told his errand.
One of the physicians, a stranger, a kind man, but short and decided
in his manner, answered him.
“Of Mr. St. Maur’s ultimate fate we cannot at this moment speak
decidedly. Immediate amputation of the right leg is necessary, to
prevent immediate death. When this pressing danger is over, we shall
be able to consider more attentively the other injuries he has
received. My opinion is, however, that if he survive the present
operation,--and, from his evidently strong constitution, I see
little doubt of this,--he may linger for years. At the same time I
am compelled to add, that it will be little short of a miracle if he
ever leaves a couch again.”
Ernest had expected nothing less than this. There was that in
Reginald’s countenance which said clearer than words, never would he
rise to life and action more; yet when the words came, they came, as
certainty must ever come, even to the wildest anxiety.
“Forgive me for speaking thus abruptly,” the physician apologized
kindly, shocked to perceive the sudden paleness of Ernest’s cheek; “I
was not aware....”
“Thank you,” replied Ernest, recovering himself, “thank you for
speaking plainly: it was the truth I wished to hear.”
“You will be kind enough,” continued the physician, “to communicate
the result of our examination to Lord Vere. We shall be prepared for
the operation in half an hour.”
Ernest turned away. Time for thought, time to ponder upon the terms
in which to prepare Reginald for his fate he dared not allow. With a
sinking heart, but a resolved composure, he re-entered the room.
The unfortunate young man was lying as he had left him, calm in his
agony. Ernest seated himself in silence by his bedside.
“Is it death, Ernest?” he inquired, turning his eyes upon him.
“No,” Ernest replied, in a tremulous voice, “not death.”
Reginald looked at him fixedly. “Then _living_ death?” he said.
Ernest’s only answer was to stoop, and press his lips on his cold
damp forehead.
Reginald’s cheek became livid in its paleness. The endurance which
the expectation of death and the racking of bodily suffering could
not shake, was shaken now. A convulsive shudder passed through his
whole frame, and tears,--not tears of sorrow, but large cold tears,
wrung as blood from his heart, fell from his distended eyes.
Ernest bent over him, and almost unconsciously murmured,
“_Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me;
nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done._”
If Ernest’s voice was the voice of the angel appointed to strengthen
him in his agony, it did not fail in its mission. The shuddering
ceased, the eyes closed, then gently unclosed again, as they turned
on Ernest.
“Dear Ernest,” he said, “I thank you. Yes, this is left to me still;
life and health may pass away, but still I can submit.”
His voice was perfectly composed when next he spoke. “Part of your
meaning, Ernest, I can well understand: is it to be immediate?”
“Immediate,” he replied, faintly.
“Then you must go to my father; or does he already know?”
“Not yet,” Ernest said, rising from his seat; for he had forgotten
the physician’s request. “I am going to him--I promised.”
Reginald stretched out his hand to detain him.
“Ernest,” he said, with some agitation, “tell him gently. You may
doubt it, but,” and a flush passed over his face, “my father loves
me.”
Ernest did not doubt. He had plainly read the signs of the last few
months, had marked the unconscious sparkle of pride at Reginald’s
name; or if these had failed to speak, he had seen the vain attempt
of the present hour, the vain attempt to mask in outward calm the
inward agony.
He went in search of him. Contrary to his expectation, he found he
had left his own library, and, with some surprise, heard from one of
the servants that he was with Lady Vere in her dressing-room.
Ernest knocked, and was admitted.
Lady Vere, still insensible, was lying on a couch drawn to the
window, and by her side her husband sat. It seemed as if the shadow
of sorrow had already brought together those who in sunny weather
had stood apart; for in the position at least there was something
of the union and tenderness of a former time. Lord Vere still bore
an air of determined composure; but the struggle to retain it was
even at a first glance evident. Those whose feelings have long been
subdued and overcome shrink with a kind of terror from their dominion
again; and he seemed battling as with an enemy.
He rose to meet Ernest.
“You are come, Mr. De Grey,” he said, in a deep stern voice.
“Yes,” Ernest replied, and paused. The very harshness of the tone
betrayed such intensity of anxiety, that he was at a loss how to
speak.
Lord Vere fixed his searching eyes upon him.
“Is my son to die?” he exclaimed.
“No,” Ernest said, in a low voice, “he will not die. He may live,
but....”
“Speak, Mr. De Grey,” said the same harsh tone.
Ernest’s lips quivered with emotion, notwithstanding his utmost
efforts to be calm.
“He may live,” he replied, “he may, it is possible, rise again from
his couch to bless you; but if he does, it must be the hand of God
that lifts him up, for man cannot.”
“I understand you,” cried the wretched father; “my son”--he paused,
he struggled to control himself, but words burst forth as with a cry
of despair--“my pride, the joy of my life, the child of my hope will
be a cripple!”
He dashed away, and concealed himself in a deep window at a distance
from where they stood, and there Ernest heard the deep-drawn
breathing with which the fight with his emotion was prolonged.
He stood irresolute. Lord Vere was one to inspire awe, not to invite
sympathy, and his manner asked rather for solitude than for comfort
now; yet an impulse urged Ernest to seize this moment of comparative
softness, and he obeyed it.
“Why do you struggle against your sorrow?” he said, approaching him,
speaking in those tender soothing tones which “the heart heard.”
“What greater comfort could there be to your suffering son, than to
know that you love him and grieve for him?”
Once again the proud man struggled with his misery, but this time in
vain. Tears from the long-dried fountain within burst from his eyes,
and, leaning his head against the wall, he wept.
Ernest retreated from the window, but, after a moment’s thought,
decided on remaining near him. It is painful, most painful, to stand
and watch the outward expression of agony, more especially that of
the proud and shrinking, who find in the expression of their sorrow
itself an added pain; yet it seemed to him that, however displeasing
his presence might then be, it was possible that afterwards it
might bring relief to the proud man to know, that vain was his
sternness,--_one_ had seen his emotion,--_one_ had learnt that he
could feel.
He stood near Lady Vere, and put back the curtains that the air
might blow more freely upon her, and fell into a kind of musing
speculation, inquiring how it was that she, whose inanimate nature
seemed scarcely susceptible of the commonest impressions, was
_thus_ affected, while those who could think and feel were in full
possession of every faculty of mind and body.
He was thus bending dreamily over her when Lord Vere rejoined him.
He was calm again, but not as he had been; tears dimmed his eyes, and
feeling spoke in every movement and muscle of his countenance.
He made a few inquiries, then said, “Return to Reginald, Mr. De
Grey. You must be with him, for I cannot. But tell him that I love
him,”--his lip quivered,--“and tell him that my heart is broken.”
He waved his hand impatiently, and Ernest left him.
* * * * *
Half an hour afterwards Reginald was carried back to bed--the
operation, (one even more than commonly painful from the manifold
injuries he had received)--over. The alleviations for lulling the
sense of pain, which have lately been discovered he had rejected, not
“sullenly and with scorn,” but resolutely.
“Do not urge me, Ernest,” he said; “if ever I could hope to go forth
into life again, I would not perhaps refuse--but now what is left to
me on earth but to _bear_?”
And he did bear. Once only during the painful operation, a groan
of unutterable anguish burst from his lips, and that was wrung from
mental, not from bodily agony. Once Ernest, who stood by his side and
held his hand, feeling the hand tremble in his, and observing his
closed eyes pressed together with convulsive energy--stooped over
him, and faint and gasping, from his lips he heard these murmured
words proceed, “Oh! Lucifer, son of the morning, how art thou fallen!”
Much has been said and written on the subject of sudden conversions.
I suppose, that taken in the full sense of the word, they are rare,
though not perhaps so rare, as some are disposed to imagine: but
taking the word in a lower sense, considering it as a change, not
from darkness, but from a kind of twilight into light, they are so
far from being uncommon, that few have not felt in themselves or
observed in others some instance of the kind. As in the physical
nature of man, after long illness, and lingering recovery, there
comes a day when suddenly he feels that the invalid is left behind,
and he is himself again,--as in the intellectual nature, there comes
a time when after long and seemingly unmeaning study, a light flashes
on the brain and knowledge is won,--so in the moral and spiritual
part of man, it is often on a sudden, a certain moment, or hour, or
day, that the truths learned in childhood begin to have a conscious
being--that the virtues and holy practices of years begin to have a
meaning--that the invisible begins to be visible--that Heaven becomes
a reality instead of an empty name.
Such a change--such a conversion--such a _regeneration_ as it might
be called of Ernest’s nature, was effected in the course of the
suffering hours of that day.
“Il y a une espèce de honte,” says La Bruyère, “d’être heureux à la
vue de certaines misères.” From the sight of the blighted life before
him, from the bed of suffering over which he bent, a voice arose
which rang like a trumpet in Ernest’s soul, bowing him in shame and
repentance to the dust,--such shame and such repentance from which
fair and fruitful blossoms spring.
From childhood he had been taught, that the world was a place of
trial and discipline to the soul; in childhood he had been taught, in
manhood he had preached it; but the words were unmeaning in his ears
and on his lips,--still he was thirsting to make it a place of rest.
For years he had heard, and his lips had preached, that man does
not live by bread--the bread of this world’s pleasure, this world’s
comfort--alone; but by every word, whether of joy or of sorrow,
that proceedeth from the mouth of God: but for him, the daily bread
for which he asked, was the cup of this world’s joy. He _knew_, but
understood not.
But the breath of the Spirit’s influence bloweth where it listeth,
and by that suffering couch, in sight of that excess of anguish and
superhuman patience, knowledge and understanding came to his soul:
“Awed and dazzled, bending, I confess
Life may have nobler ends than happiness.”
It is not in minds of Ernest’s class that such knowledge is barren
knowledge. Many, in moments of excitement, feel dormant powers
aroused, and duties that almost madden the soul brought before
their eyes; few deal so truly with themselves as to own their
responsibility for the inspirations of such a time. But Ernest, even
from childhood, had followed the light that led him, and so was
prepared for the enlightening of this hour. His progress had been
slow, for opposing tendencies kept him back; but though failing, he
had never been forgetful; in discomfiture had never been at rest.
Often he stumbled, sometimes altogether he fell; but still when the
time of temptation past, with clear eyes and resolute will, he had
ever risen again and struggled on.
The thick-coming fancies, the stirring energies of that moment, might
fade and fall into rest; but he had passed a boundary and entered
into a new existence, and he would not return again. It might be but
a step; but it was that step which leads from the life of calm and
simple sincerity, asking, “What _must_ I do, and I will strive to do
it?” to the glowing life, which beholding the flood of evil on the
earth, exclaims, “What _can_ I do for the glory of God and the love
of man? What wanderers can I call back to rest? what holy ones can I
bless? what sorrowing eyes can I comfort? what frail errors of the
flesh restore with my gentle compassion?” It was but a step, but it
was such a step as the earth makes, when from the shadows of night
and the glimmerings of twilight, it leaps forth into the radiance
of the dawning sun. Many an hour might pass before it attained its
noontide glory; but the night _was_ spent, and the dawn _was_ come.