The last day arrived, a bright showery Sunday in April. I was to leave
early next morning. Lord Tawborough would see me as far as Southampton.
At my last Breaking of Bread many allusions were made in prayer to my
departure for foreign lands. If I was not going there avowedly in His
service, none the less let His service be my chief aim and effort. I
worshipped devoutly. This might be the last Lord's Supper of which
I should ever partake. The Lord's People in France were the merest
handful; there were not more than four Meetings in all the Empire, of
which not one, Grandmother had ascertained, was in Paris or the north
or any part I was likely to be near. And I might be abroad three or
four years without a holiday in England.
Now that at last my hopes and ambitions were being fulfilled, sadness
and regret were uppermost. The old life I knew so well, the present
in which I had still one day to live, already seemed far behind me. I
looked back in the anticipatorily retrospective fashion of all who live
in the future; and to whom, living in the future, the present is always
already the past.
Already Bear Lawn was the past, decked with a pathos that as the
present it had never worn.
The last dinner was a goodly spread: a roast fowl, a hog's pudding, and
apple dumplings with clotted cream. Glory and Salvation were invited.
The latter slobbered noisily of how she would miss me; I realized with
a sudden sentimental pang that, after all, it might be true. Glory
wept till the tears streamed down her cheeks on to her untidy bodice;
I watched with a feeling of guilt for her sorrow and the increasing
shamefulness of her blouse.
The last night was full of odd pauses and silences. Aunt Jael kept
looking at me and looking away quickly when I looked back. She tried to
keep up an appearance of stoicism and sternness, and knew that she was
failing. At the last moment she gave up all pretence. In my emotional
mood, she seemed to atone for years of hardness when she turned sharply
away from the Book of Proverbs at which her Bible opened--it was real
sacrifice--and chose for the nightly portion my 137th Psalm. I thought
of that dismal first night at Torribridge so many years ago.
Later on, at my bedside, my Grandmother prayed a long devoted prayer.
"Oh Lord Jesus! How my old heart aches when I am sometimes tempted
to fear that she may be unworthy of that Saint who sits with Thee,
her dear dear mother. Grant that in foreign lands and the cities of
the plain she may shun the ungodly and flee from all worldliness and
evil. Grant, Oh Lord, that we three may meet together in Thine Own
everlasting arms. For Jesus' sake."
Next morning I was up betimes. Mrs. Cheese, red-eyed and tearful,
helped me cord my box. "I daun knaw what we shall do without 'ee, my
dear. Even the ol' biddy is sorrowful, though she's not enough of a
Christian to fancy showin' it."
The last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was dressed for the
journey, and my brass-nailed box was ready in the hall. We awaited the
sound of Lord Tawborough's carriage.
Aunt Jael epitomized.
"Well, child, you're at your eighteenth year and you're doing well in
life. I'm sure I don't grudge it 'ee. Your poor mother would have been
a proud woman to see you going off like this to a good post among fine
folk; but don't think as much of folk being fine and grand as she did,
poor soul. All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don't let your head be turned
because a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid foreign
lords and ladies: they're no better than humbler folk before the Lord
and not often as good. Profit all you can. Never be ashamed of those
who brought you up. Maybe 'twill be three or four years before we see
you. A long time when we're old and within sight of the grave. Maybe
you'll never see us again."
"Oh no, Aunt Jael!"
"Why not?" said my Grandmother, "'tis as likely as not true. Ye know
not the day nor the hour." (The door knocker sounded.) "Come kiss me
good-bye and remember I shall tell her you're following after. Love the
Lord always."
I hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael and my
Grandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, Mrs. Cheese behind
weeping in the doorway. I turned round in the carriage and waved my
hand. I got a last glimpse of my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw
them turn round and begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw
them after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant of
parting.
On the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped up in
myself and my own thoughts. Some of the way I slept. When we got to
Southampton docks, and my last Good-bye in England was but a few
minutes ahead I remembered with the greater shame and vividness (that
throughout the long journey I had forgotten it) to whom it was I owed
all the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and generous
he had always been, and how utterly unworthy of his goodness and
generosity I was.
"Sir," I said, and my voice was shaky, "I don't know how to thank you
for all you have done for me. I've no money, no power, no anything.
But if there's anything I can make or send you to remember me by--if
there's anything at all I can do--Is there anything?"
"Yes: Kiss me."
He spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion and surprise.
Then I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed me.
There were two old ladies standing near by; "Brother and sister," we
overheard one of them say.
"That's it, isn't it?" I said.
He did not reply.
There was one more moment before I had to go on to the boat. I noticed
with a new interest--reviewing with staring inquisition every detail
of his face--how good and clever and refined and aristocratic he was;
how more than all he seemed sad and hankering and lonely. I could not
help apprehending after what had happened--but then, no, that was too
absurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting.
"Au revoir," he said in a last handshake, "but not Adieu."
It was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. England was a fading
piece of purple sky, lying low upon the sea; sprinkled with stars, for
the harbour lights were showing. As she faded away I knew that she too
belonged to the past.
I went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sunshine of France
and the future.
PART TWO