STILL UNDER THE ELM TREES.
"RATHER a pleasant sort of gentleman after all," remarked Timothy
Turnbull, looking after the stranger, and rising respectfully to greet
the new-comer, who, begging both the gossips to keep their seats, sat
down on the opposite bench to rest, and leaning forward, began to trace
lines in the dust at his feet with his walking stick, and to speak as
if musing on the lawyer's parting words.
"Yes, quite true; our ancestors survived that storm, and it will be
well for us if we are lodged in a better ark with a greater than he,
and safe to outride the more awful storm which will some day sweep away
the usurper's frail barriers and false distinctions, and restore the
lost inheritance to its rightful heir."
"Sir!" said the landlord, taking out his pipe and gazing curiously at
the speaker.
"Eh!" said the sexton, rubbing his forehead with a puzzled air. "Surely
you think that poor Master Guy may come to his own again, sir?"
"I fear not, friends; but I hope he will come to something better—'an
inheritance that fadeth not away,' and if his name and ours are
'written in heaven' in the Book of Life, it will matter very little
where they stand in the pedigrees of men, and the title deeds of earth.
So let us all see that we hold our own by the safe and lasting title."
"And what may that be, sir, to your way of thinking?" asked Timothy,
feeling that he must say something to break an awkward pause.
"By faith in the Son of God; 'whosoever believeth,' that is the deed of
transfer which makes eternal life and glory ours. And if we do cast in
our lot with Him who gave Himself to be 'made sin for us, that we might
be made the righteousness of God in Him,' we shall share the triumph of
that hour for which all creation groans, when the once rejected King
and Saviour shall come to assert His blood-bought rights, and receive
His redeemed inheritance."
"Amen," said the clerk solemnly. "But, sir, we should like to hear what
you think about this bad business of selling the property away from its
right owners, for the whole village is downhearted about it."
"And justly so," said the young clergyman; "I am of the same mind in
the matter, and it would do no good to attempt to excuse such a cruel,
selfish act."
"I'm right glad to hear you say that, sir!" exclaimed Timothy, throwing
down his pipe, and slapping his knees with both hands. "It's no true
religion that makes black anything but black, is it Spadeley?"
"It does me good to hear things called by their right names," said
Spadeley; "I thought you'd begin to preach about resignation and the
like of that, and make it out somehow to be the right thing after all."
"But you see there are two aspects of the case, friends," said Mr.
Herbert, determined to set himself right with the downhearted villagers
in the matter, and aware that what he said would be repeated in many
forms amongst them. "There is the side of the human actors in the
circumstances which have occurred, and before God and man a great
wrong is done, and the widow and the fatherless are oppressed. God
is displeased, and will make it felt at the right time and way, so
far as the oppressor is concerned; and He does not require us to
close our eyes and hearts, and not see and feel with indignation and
disgust, as honest, true men should. But as He has not seen it good to
interfere and hinder their doings, we are constrained by the knowledge
of His word and ways to the conclusion, that in His providence He has
something better in view—some yet unseen benefit to work out for His
troubled children, which shall far exceed and outvalue all they are
losing now. And in this aspect we are bound to cultivate resignation
and exercise patience. We are to trust God in fact, and be sure that He
will never fail them that trust in Him."
"Amen," said Mr. Spadeley; "and is that the way the poor lady feels
about it, sir?"
"Yes, I am glad to say that I have quoted nearly her own words, and
what I am sure she wishes all her friends to feel. And it is the right
view to take of all the disagreeable things of life when once we take
our stand upon the 'Rock of Ages,'—eh, my friends?"
"Very good, sir," said the landlord; "and if one turns to making the
best of it, it do seem as if the old place might have fallen into worse
hands than Squire Hazelwood's."
"That is true, Mr. Turnbull; he will not let things go to ruin, and
perhaps may help forward some of our little plans among his tenantry,
so let us hold by God's promises and hope for the best. You know where
to find them, for I saw the good old book upon your parlour table the
other day. Ana you, Mr. Spadeley, must have much knowledge of them from
your position and duties among us."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Spadeley graciously, "I do have to look out for
pretty texts for the tombstones often, for you see when the country
folk bring no verses of their own composing, and not boasting much of
a gift that ways myself, I fall back upon the Bible, and we're sure to
come at something comfortable. But that reminds me of poor old Hayes.
Have you seen him lately, sir?"
"The gardener at the Moat? Yes, I see him every day, and a more true,
simple-hearted believer in our Lord Jesus Christ does not lie ready for
the summons home."
"Amen, and right, sir. Well, you see when I knew he wasn't going to
get better, I thought I would ask him about his epitaph, for he must
have a head-stone, and it shall be a good one, and I naturally wanted
something nice to carve on it. And what do you think he chose, sir? It
do downright get over me. None of the pretty verses I told him of would
do."
"'Chief of sinners,'" suggested Mr. Herbert. "I know he feels like
that."
"Well, he did name it, and I said out flat, No, I wouldn't put it;
I'd have more words to make my work worth while. So he thought a bit,
and then he said, 'Few and evil have the days of the years of my life
been,' and there he's stuck ever since, and I can't move him, so I
shall have to do it, I s'pose, for I wouldn't rile a passing spirit."
"And," said the clergyman, "since you don't mind the work, my kind
friend, you shall add something to it at my expense whenever the time
comes, and it shall be this, 'Blessed is he whose transgression is
forgiven, whose sin is covered.' 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us
from our sins in His own blood, be glory and dominion for ever.' I feel
sure our dear old brother will not object to that addition."
"Well, he's a real gentleman, our young parson is, though I say it,
that's part of the profession in a way," said the clerk and sexton,
resuming his pipe, as the clergyman bade them good-night and walked
away.
"A real Christian, too, I should say," added Mr. Turnbull; "though they
did say he'd been among the Methodies. Never mind that; he's the right
sort to comfort the poor lady and her children in their troubles."
"Ah! Poor, dear lady!" ejaculated the sexton. "I mean to beg a last
favour of her before she goes, that she'll be sure to come back to be
buried in the old vault under the cedars,—for I shouldn't like anybody
to do it for her but me, nor for her to lie anywhere but amongst her
own kin, and I dare say our parson would like to read the service
over her his own self. Good-night, and thank you, landlord; I shall
just call in and see how Hayes does to-night, and tell him about the
epitaph, and cheer him up a bit."
* * * * * * *
"Joe," said the landlord of the Falconer's Arms a few days after to his
ostler and factotum,—"Joe, we've got to horse the carriage that's to
carry away the family from the Moat, d'ye hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, Joe, somebody must drive;" and the landlord smoothed his grey
hair, and rubbed it up again, and looked perplexed, while Joe looked
stolid.
"Joe, my lad, you must drive them," at last said the landlord, well
knowing how hard a task he was setting to one whose whole family and
lifetime had been comforted and helped by the kind lady at the Moat.
"Sir, master, don't ye now; I can't do it, indeed I can't. I'd sooner
be thrashed." And poor Joe looked almost tearfully earnest.
"So would I, Joe, but I can't do it myself; and after all, it will be
better for a friend to do it; they'll feel it less themselves than if I
got a stranger, and they always like your driving, Joe; yes, you must
do it, that's all about it."
After a pause, during which Joe might have been cogitating the possible
consequences of a flat refusal,—
"Which 'osses, master?" said he gloomily.
"The black ones, Joe—black harness and all—just like a funeral. I
shan't let my spanking bays go on no such an errand. And if Squire
Hazelwood should be here, he'll see mourning, that's all."
"Mourning enough," thought Joe, walking off, and grumbling to himself.
"The beautifullest, nicest, best lady in all the country round, and as
good a pair of children as ever was set eyes on! What will us do to
show our love and our trouble all at once, I wonder? Why, if ever poor
Joe gets to heaven, it's cause she taught me the way. And I'm to drive
her away from the only home she's got on earth! I wish I could take
her straight to paradise among the angels she's like; wouldn't I! And
never come back no more. Well, don't be a fool, Joe, but do your duty
as she's bid you; that's the best way to show gratitude and love to
her. But if we goes with them old black 'osses' funeral paces, we'll
have all the village sobbing round us, and none of us can't stand that.
I must drive and whip and shout my best for all sakes, and so you old
'osses must just step out for once."
"It's quite true, Joe," said his particular friend, Jane Spadeley, whom
he met quite by accident as he went to look after the black horses in
the lower meadow; "Squire Hazelwood has ended the bargain, and they say
he's coming as soon as possible, so missus will be off in a day or two."
"But you are going with 'em, I suppose, Jane. As for Squire Hazelwood,
I don't want to hear nought about him, but what about the missus, and
poor Miss Maude, and Master Guy?"
"Why, Joe, they won't let me go with them, that's my trouble," and
Jane's tears began to struggle into her eyes, though all through a
trying interview with her mistress she had bravely bidden them back.
"Won't let you go?" said Joe in amazement; for the thing seemed
incredible. He would have let her do anything she wished.
"No; and why they won't breaks my very heart to think of. They can't
afford to keep a maid to wait upon them now. I've begged and begged,
and I've offered to go without any wages, and eat next to nothing, but
it's of no use; and missus cried, and took my poor hand as if I'd been
a lady, and dear Miss Maude put her arms round me and kissed me, and we
were all in a pretty state, when in burst Master Guy. He looked round
for a moment, and though he seemed choking, he said,—
"'Cheer up, mother, cheer up all of you! We'll all come back to the old
place some day when I'm a man,' and with a great stamp of his foot, he
rushed away again. But it brought us to, and did us good, even to think
of such a thing."
"Poor Master Guy! Poor dear lady!" said Joe. "What can we do for them?"
"Why, Joe, she says we can do the very best thing for them all—we can
pray for them, and ask that they may say truly and honestly, 'Thy will
be done.'"
"It's very hard," said Joe, slashing the grass with his whip, "and goes
right agin the grain."
"It's part of the victory, she says," continued Jane, "and must be
fought for, and won."
"Gee up, whoa," said Joe, throwing his halter over the neck of one of
the calm black horses as he came up with the creature, out of which all
frolicsome spirits had long departed. "Thee's got a bit of ugly work to
do, so see thee does it kindly."
It was a bit of ugly work, enough to displease all the animal creation
of the Falcon Range.
Captain Guy Falconer, the younger son of the late owner of the Moat,
had come home from active service with his regiment abroad, to die in
the prime of manhood of a neglected wound.
But not before having, both by precept and example, impressed all
around him with the conviction that to him "to die was gain," and that
his triumphant faith had enfolded the young wife and children whom he
must leave behind, and placed them in his heavenly Father's arms, to be
cared for, and brought to Him in due time.
And this treasured remembrance now soothed the pain of an uprooting
from home and its associations, such as neither she nor her husband had
ever contemplated. For the elder Mr. Falconer had long held a lucrative
and honourable appointment abroad, and only used his inheritance at
home to drain its resources, and to supply his own and his elder son's
extravagances, leaving the mansion and grounds to the tenancy of
Captain Falconer's family with the impression that the estate must one
day follow its long antecedent history by descent in the male line to
the lawful heir-presumptive, the only son of Guy and Blanche Falconer.
Mr. Geoffry, the elder son of the now deceased proprietor, had
neither inclination nor health for the English climate, hated the
responsibilities of a landlord, was childless, and devoid of affection
or sympathy for the brother whose interests he did not scruple to set
aside, and whose admired and devoted wife he rejoiced to humble and
oppress.
The late turn of affairs had revealed something of this to the boy, who
had hitherto considered himself born to a respectable though encumbered
inheritance, and the tumult of feeling roused within taught him an
unexpected lesson upon the very unsatisfactory foundation of earthly
hope, and the treacherous failure of human character unsustained by
Christian principle.
For Master Guy had found himself in several violent passions, had
indulged in more unbecoming language concerning his uncle and
grandfather than had ever been heard from his lips before, had flung
his lesson books into a corner, trampled down the flowers in his own
particular garden, shaken his young fist at the aggravating birds that
sang on cheerily among the trees, and exhausted himself in a flood of
tears, with his arms clasped round the neck of a sympathising pony.
The ferment of feeling among tenants and dependents did not serve to
lessen his disgust and indignation; wherever he went, kind hearts
resented, and thoughtless tongues commented, until poor Guy regarded
himself as the most injured of mortals, and his own the most blighted
of prospects, to say nothing of those of his mother and sister.
In a state of utter self-abandonment, dreading the event of the morrow,
hating to think of the last night in the dear old home, the boy had
wandered from spot to spot endeared by happy childish memories, until
he could bear no more, and as if the tomb would be a desirable end to
all his troubles, went last to the quiet resting-place beneath the
cedars.
[Illustration]