MAINTAINS THAT FOR THE WRONG SIN-BURDENED MORTAL NO SLEEP IS SO SWEET AS
THE LAST LONG SLEEP OF ALL.
There was deep joy in Mrs. Thomas Wanless's cottage that night--joy all
the deeper for the pain that lay beneath it. Mrs. Wanless was not a
demonstrative woman at any time, but that night she embraced her
daughter again and again, and held her to her heart with passionate
eagerness. Sarah was sad, and after the first momentary flash of
delight, shrank back within herself. She went and looked at her child
sleeping quietly in its grandmother's bed, but did not kiss or caress
it. The joy of the parents was dimmed at sight of this indifference, but
when Sarah had retired to rest, Thomas did his best to encourage his
wife to hope. "It will soon be all right between mother and child," he
prophesied, and this no doubt was their hope. It was long, however, ere
they saw any fulfilment of it. In truth, shame took so deep a hold on
Sarah's mind that she became a sort of terror to herself. She was so
crushed by the past, so utterly incapable of rising out of the darkness
that shrouded her mind, that it is probable she would again have fled
from her father's roof had she not been prevented by illness. The life
of false excitement she had led in London had sapped her constitution,
and she had not long returned when her health began to give way. Fits of
shivering seized her, then a hacking, dry cough, which could not be
dislodged. Her complexion grew transparent, her eye preternaturally
bright. She was, in a word, falling into consumption, and in all
probability would not live long to endure her misery. This was doubtless
the kindest fate that could now befall her, but it was a new grief to
her parents when they awoke to consciousness of the fact that this lost
one, so lately found again, was slowly vanishing from their sight for
ever.
She herself grew happier in the prospect of early death, and from being
silent and cold became gentle, opener in her manner, and more kindly to
all around her, as if striving by her tender care of her child and her
grateful affection for her parents to make the last days of her life on
earth a sweet memory. After a time, too, as she became weaker, her heart
moved her to talk of the past, and she bit by bit told her mother the
story of her flight and her life in the great city. The sum of it all
was misery, an agony of soul unspeakable, from which she ultimately
found no escape save in drink. Her own motive in running away after
Adelaide Codling was not very clear even to herself. Some vague idea of
finding that other victim, and of rescuing her from the doom that she
herself was stricken by, she had, but the governing motives were shame
and pride. Once in the gate of Hell, which London is to tens of
thousands every year, she tried to get access to Captain Wiseman, and
haunted the entrance of his barracks for a week, but he came not. She
did see him at a distance two or three times afterwards, but women such
as she was now dared not approach so great a person in the open streets
by day. With more persistence she sought for Adelaide Codling, but with
no better success. The only occasion when she got near enough to speak
to that poor girl was one day that they met by a shop door in Regent
Street. Adelaide came forth gorgeously dressed, and carrying her head
high just as Sarah passed. They recognised each other, and Sarah stopped
to speak, but the other turned away her head with a toss like her
mother's, and hurried off.
Soon the peasant's daughter had to abandon all thoughts of others, and
face hunger for herself. Her money and trinkets found her in food and
lodgings but for a few short days, and then she, having obtained no
situation, had to leave the servants' home where she had at first found
refuge, and--either starve or take to the streets. Her sin had branded
her; she had no "references," and no hope. Had courage only been given
her she would have died, but she dared not. It seemed easier to go forth
to the streets. The raging "social evil" that mocks in every
thoroughfare Christianity and the serene, tithe-sustained worshipping
machinery of the State, offered her a refuge. There she could welter and
rot if she pleased, fulfilling the excellent economy of life provided
for us in these islands. The army composing this evil only musters some
100,000 in London, and is something altogether outside the pale of
established and other Christian institutions.
That summer and winter when the lost Sarah faded away and died was a
hard time for Thomas Wanless and his wife. Work was precarious, and
thus, added to the pain of seeing their child fade away, was the bitter
sense of inability to do all that was possible to prolong her life.
Nearly all the labourer's savings had disappeared during Thomas's long
quest. But they struggled on, complaining to none but God, nor did their
trials break their trust in His help. They felt that the kindness with
which all friends and neighbours treated them in their sorrow was a
proof that the Divine Father of all had not forgotten them. And their
daughter herself became a consolation to their grief-worn spirits. A
sweet resignation took possession of her mind as she neared the end. The
passions of life died away, and the clouds that had hidden her soul for
the most part disappeared. Her parents might dream for moments, when her
cheeks looked brighter than usual, that she would recover, but she
herself knew that death was near, and thanked God.
During this time the Vicar--poor old man--came oftener than ever to the
labourer's cottage. He could not be said to assert himself against his
wife in doing so, for he came as if by a power stronger than his own
wrecked will. When he was seated by the labourer's fireside, he seemed
to be at peace. Often for an hour at a time he hardly spoke, but just
sat still and looked with a sad kindliness, pathetic to behold, on the
wasting form before him, and either stroked her hand held in his own, or
gently patting the golden head of the little lass that now began to
toddle to his knee. And when the visit was over, the cloud settled down
upon him again. He went forth dejected, a hopeless-looking being, and
crawled helplessly back to the Vicarage. He called on the morning of
Sarah's death. She sank gently to rest on a raw February morning nearly
eight months after her return, and within a week of her twenty-first
birthday. When Mr. Codling was told, he stood for a moment as if dazed,
and then asked to be led to Sarah's bedside. There he stood, gazing
long, with bent head, till the tears rose and blinded him. With them the
higher emotions of his soul welled up within him, and he turned and took
the hand of Wanless, who stood by his side.
"Thomas, my friend," he said, "I envy your daughter that rest. I, too,
long to be as she is. Life has become all a waste desert to me; oh, so
dreary, dreary." Then, after a pause, he went on--"And I envy you,
Thomas, for have you not cause to rejoice that Sarah has died in her
father's house forgiven? Had it been but so with my Adelaide; oh, had it
been but so, I think--I--hope would not have been lost to me. But I wish
I were dead--yes, dead and forgotten," and, letting go the hand he had
held, he knelt down by the bedside, buried his face, and wept as he had
wept only by his daughter's grave.
Unhappy old man. Who shall judge him; who say that the All-pitying had
not forgiven? Calming himself presently, the aged Vicar rose to his
feet, and looked again on the dead face, so different in its white
purity and smile of peace from the one he had looked on in London. He
bent and kissed it, and then suffered the grief-worn but calm old
labourer to lead him quietly away. "God bless you and comfort you, sir,
and give you His peace," was all that Thomas trusted himself to utter;
but sorrow had made these men brothers indeed.
Although Thomas and his wife knew in their hearts that Heaven had been
merciful to their child and to themselves in taking her away, their
sorrow was nevertheless keen. Nay, in some senses it was keener, because
the "might have been" rose before the mind. Here was in truth a waif--a
lost one--mercifully removed from further sorrow, but had there been no
wreck, how short would her life have seemed, how sad its early close. In
Wanless's life, therefore, few days were darker than the day on which he
laid Sarah to rest beside the long-lost little ones in the old
churchyard. It was little consolation to him that half the village
gathered reverently to the funeral, and yet as he thought of the other
grave by which he had stood not many months before, his spirit was
somehow soothed. The contrast must have struck the Vicar likewise, but
he made no sign. He insisted, however, on reading the burial service
himself, in spite of the remonstrances of his young curate, who usually
did this work. Bareheaded and trembling, pale, and feeble looking, with
his white thin hair fluttering in the icy breeze, the sight of their old
pastor that day drew tears to many eyes. His tremulous voice seemed more
solemn to the listeners that day than ever before, and they loved and
pitied the frail old man. More than one villager remarked to his
neighbour as they left the grave that he "did not think Mr. Codling
would be long in following Sally Wanless."
It was in truth to be so. The Vicar did not live long after, but his was
not the next burial. Before he went--months before--old Squire Wiseman
died and was buried in the family vault, with the pomp and circumstance
that became his station. No one sorrowed at his death, but the lack of
grief was hidden by the abundance of display. All the army of underlings
were put in mourning at the new squire's expense. Cecil was now lord of
the Grange, and one of his first steps was to make it too hot a place
for his mother, by filling it with debased men and women--titled
fledglings and their harpies, horsey men, and sharpers. The wealthy
marriage his mother had sought for him never came off. An Irish peer,
needy as Wiseman, but with a more marketable commodity in the shape of
his title, had swooped down and carried off the prize. The carpet or
"turf" soldier consequently came to his inheritance buried in debt, but
that seemed to make him only the more extravagant. His true place was
the gutter, but the land was entailed, tenants were squeezable, and
though hard up, the new squire floundered on, cursing and a curse.
His debts should have ruined him, but they merely ruined his tenants,
impoverished the land, and made those driven to depend on him as
beggarly as their master. The weight of this rottenness lay heaviest of
all on the labouring poor, who stood undermost in the social scale. Poor
farmers meant less labour, badly tilled soil, reduced wages, and the
hinds became a picture of misery. All Ashbrook parish suffered for the
sins of this sprig of the aristocracy. What of that! Are the sacred,
priest-sanctioned, bishop-blessed rights of property to be interfered
with because the people want bread? That would be contrary to all law
and order, as established by these delicate perverters of the Hebrew
Scriptures.
No; better far let the people starve; let the mortgages squeeze those
who do not own; make the fair earth bestowed on man--to be cultivated,
tended, and rendered fruitful--a waste howling desert, peopled by wild
animals, for whose shooting, wealthy pelf-rakers from the centres of
trade are ready to pay high rents. Next to our heaven-bestowed Poor Law,
the Law of Entail, which binds the land to a name or a family, has been
the greatest factor for evil in the national life of England. It has
preserved our "institutions;" gives continuity to our history, men
assert. Perish the people then, but hold fast to this sheet anchor. "It
preserves scoundrels from justice, and the fate they have earned," by
reformers. What of that? These men have the right to be abominable--you
and I, the workers and the sweaters, the privilege only to bear their
abominations.
It has always struck me, though, that the fetish machinery of the
English Establishment is imperfect in one particular. While in actual
fact all "lord" bishops, and most preachers therein, determinedly oppose
whatsoever would emancipate the people from their bondage, the best of
them never daring to strike boldly at the root of the evils that
threaten England with extinction, that fill the land with misery, that
huddle the bulk of our population into the fever dens of her cities--it
has struck me, I say, that their liturgy is incomplete, almost
hypocritical. A prayer like this should be inserted among the collects
of the day, instead, say, of the collect for peace, which comes so ill
from the lips of men whose ambition is usually to train some of their
children as licensed men-slayers. Let the lawn-sleeved "lord" bishops
look to it, then, and take this hint:--
"Sanctify might, O Lord, against right, and make it stronger and
stronger. Bless iniquities in high places, and cause the hypocrisy of
princes to be exalted in the eyes of the people. Protect the nobility
and gentry in their harlotry, and let holiness be measured by the
fineness of the garments. Grind the poor in their poverty, and cause
them to pay that they owe not. And O Lord, we beseech Thee, suffer not
the oppressed to have justice, lest they rise up against us and refuse
to give us the tithes we have filched from the indignant. These things
do, O Lord, and our lips shall praise Thee."
If you will honestly pray thus, serene "lord" bishops, much-wrangling,
gorgeously-embroidered deans, vicars, and incumbents, you will earn the
respect of honest men. Whatever you do, I beseech you go not on as you
do now, lest the people should one day _act_. They think not a little
even now.
Fare ye well, then, Cecil Wiseman, sham soldier, horse racer,
blasphemer, drunkard, seducer, sot, farewell! The upper world "society"
protects you, the Church shields you, nay, the priest must e'en bow when
you abduct his daughter, and the very Jews themselves, wholesome scourge
of your class though they be, cannot utterly ruin you--here. Go your
ways--I leave you to God. What witness, think you, will that diseased
body, that bloated face and hang-dog look of yours, bear against you in
the judgment? In that day your very victims may pity you.
And has not the judgment already come on your mother--cast out,
despised, lonely, poor as she is? Alone, she lives in her little
jointure house at Kenilworth, white-haired, feeble, full of bitterness
of spirit. All the glory of her life has gone. The meanest servant in
Warwickshire may look down on her with commiseration. Your sins have
torn what heart she had, and she begins to awake to the fact that the
law of compensation, the dim foretaste of divine justice, can reach even
such as she. To her likewise let us bid adieu.