UNDER THE OLD WALNUT-TREE.
Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for confession's smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;
How sweet in that dark hour to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us--will not God forgive?
KEBLE'S _Christian Year_.
Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire the
picturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantastically
twisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls half
smothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep,
shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool and
inviting on a hot summer's day, while the ever-open door gave a
glimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass door
leading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in front
of the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old garden
full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace,
and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers's
favorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday's
sermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down the
straight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circular
seat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the
"Master's summer study." It was here that Margaret read to him in the
fresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or in
the evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and the
lark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in the
corn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched in
the branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the
"early worm."
People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours over
such dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and the
abstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers's soul delighted
must have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had but
known it, their pity was perfectly wasted.
Margaret's vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying and
assimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr.
Ferrers's favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to read
over again some grand passage or trenchant argument.
Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had found
the brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of the
extent of Margaret's erudition; in earlier years she had learned a
little Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby--she
was indeed "his eyes," as he fondly termed her, and those who listened
to the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knew
how much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research was
owing to Margaret's unselfish devotion; Milton's daughters reading to
him in his blindness were not more devoted than she.
When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led the
way to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble's "Christian Year" in
her hand and a volume of Herbert's poems--for wearied by his labors,
Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to be
read to him between the services, or often he bade her close her book
or read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon.
The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broad
gravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peaches
ripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there was
another seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days one
could sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round one
with temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, where
sweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busy
brown workers, "the little liverymen of industry," as Raby called
them, or "his preachers in brown."
Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her place
beside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep lines
furrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke of
some effort to repress heart-weariness.
"He is thinking of our poor child," she said to herself, as she turned
to the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: "From
whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the
wilderness"--the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for his
evening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voice
lingered involuntarily over the third verse, a sigh burst from Raby's
lips.
"Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,
Thou need'st not in thy gloom depart,
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:
Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed
By the kind Saviour at thy side;
For healing and for balm e'en now thy hour is come."
"Oh, that it were come for both of us," muttered Raby, in a tone so
husky with pain that Margaret stopped.
"You are thinking of Crystal," she said, softly, leaning toward him
with a face full of sympathy. "That verse was beautiful; it reminded
me of our child at once"--but as he hid his face in his hands without
answering her, she sat motionless in her place, and for a long time
there was silence between them.
But Margaret's heart was full, and she was saying to herself:
"Why need I have said that, as though he ever forgot her? poor
Raby--poor, unhappy brother--forget her! when every night in the
twilight I see him fold his hands as though in prayer, and in the
darkness can hear him whisper, 'God bless my darling and bring her
home to me again.'"
"Margaret!"
"Yes, dear;" but as she turned quickly at the beseeching tone in which
her name was uttered, a smile came to her lips, for Raby's hand was
feeling in his inner breast-pocket, and she knew well what that action
signified; in another moment he had drawn out a letter and had placed
it in Margaret's outstretched palm. Ever since this letter had reached
them about two months ago, each Sunday the same silent request had
been made to her, and each time, as now, she had taken it without
hesitation or comment, and had read it slowly from beginning to end.
The envelope bore the Leeds postmark, and the letter itself was
evidently written hurriedly in a flowing, girlish hand.
"MY DEAREST MARGARET," it began, "I feel to-night as though I
must write to you; sometimes the homesickness is so
bitter--the longing so intense to see your dear face
again--that I can hardly endure it; there are times when the
restlessness is so unendurable that I can not sit still and
bear it--when I feel as though I have but one wish in the
world, just to feel your arms round me again, and hear from
your lips that I am forgiven, and then lie down and die.
"You suffer, too, you say, in the one letter that has reached
me: I have ever overshadowed your happiness. You and Raby are
troubling your kind hearts about me, but indeed there is no
need for any fresh anxiety.
"I have met with good Samaritans. The roof that shelters me is
humble indeed, but it shelters loving hearts and simple,
kindly natures--natures as true as yours, Margaret--gentle,
high-souled women, who, like the charitable traveler in the
Bible, have sought to pour oil and wine into my wounds. How
you would love them for my sake, but still more for their own!
"These kindly strangers took me in without a word--they asked
no questions; I was young, friendless and unhappy, that was
all they cared to know.
"I must tell you very little about them, for I do not wish to
give you any clew to my home at present; they are a mother and
two daughters in reduced circumstances, but having
unmistakably the stamp of gentlewomen; both mother and
daughter, for the second is only a child, have high, cultured
natures. The mother--forgive me, Margaret, for I dare not
mention her name--teaches in a school close by us, and her
daughter is also a daily governess. I am thankful to say that
their recommendations have procured me work of the same kind;
I give morning lessons to two little boys, and Fern--that is
the eldest daughter's name--and I have also obtained some
orders for embroidery to fill up our leisure hours and occupy
our hands while we teach Fern's youngest sister.
"And now I have told you all this, will you not be comforted a
little about me; will you not believe that as far as possible
things are well with me? Tell him--tell Raby--that when I have
wiped out my sin a little by this bitter penance and
mortification, till even I can feel I have suffered and
repented enough, I will come back and look on your dear face
again. And this for you, Margaret; know that in the blameless,
hard-working life I lead that I have forgotten none of your
counsel, and that I so walk in the hard and lonely path that I
have marked out for myself that even you could find no fault.
Farewell.
"CRYSTAL."
As Margaret's voice died away, Raby turned his sightless face to her.
"You may give it back to me, Margaret, but stay, there is the copy of
your answer; I think I would like to hear that once again; and
Margaret obediently opened the thin, folded paper.
"MY POOR DARLING,--At last we have heard from you--at last you
have yielded to my urgent request for some news of your daily
life. God bless you for lifting a little of the weight off us,
for telling us something about yourself and your work. I could
not help crying bitterly over your letter, to think that a
humble roof shelters our child; that you are compelled to work
for your living; you, Crystal, who have never known what it is
to want anything; upon whom a rough wind was not suffered to
blow. My child, come home. What need is there of penance and
expiation when all has been forgiven? The evil spirit that
tormented our child has been cast out, and you are clothed
afresh and in your right mind now; come home, for dear Raby's
sake, and be his darling as of old! Do you know how he longs
for you? Daily he asks 'Any news of her, Margaret?' and last
night, as I was passing his study door, he called me in and
bade me give you this message--'Tell my child, Margaret,' he
said, 'that every night I bless her and fall asleep breathing
her name; tell her that my forgiveness and blessing are ever
with her; that there is no bitterness in my heart; that she
can not escape from my love; that it will follow her to the
world's end. And tell her, Margaret, that if she do not soon
come back to me that I, Raby--blind, helpless, useless as I
am--will seek her through God's earth till I find her and
bring her back.' Ah, surely you must weep as you read this,
Crystal. I pray that every tear may be God's own dew to melt
and break up the hardness of your heart. Your ever loving
"MARGARET."
"That was written nearly two months ago, Madge, and she has not come
yet."
"No, dear, we must have patience."
Raby sighed impatiently. "So you always say; but it is hard to be
patient under such circumstances--to know that the woman you love has
made herself an exile from all she holds dear. Margaret, I was wrong
not to tell her what I felt. I sometimes fear that she misjudged my
silence. But she was so young."
"You meant it for the best, Raby?"
"Yes, I meant it for the best," he answered, slowly. "I did not wish
to take advantage of her youth; it did not seem right or honorable.
Let her go into the world a little and see other men, that is what I
said to myself. Even now, I hardly think I was wrong."
"No, you were right, quite right; but you need not have dreaded the
result of such an ordeal; Crystal would never have loved any one but
you, Raby. I sometimes think"--but here she hesitated.
"You think what, Margaret?"
"That she was jealous of Mona--that she misunderstood you there?"
"Good heavens! Mrs. Grey!"
"Crystal was so young, and she did not know that poor Mona's life was
doomed. I have seen her look at Mona so strangely when you were
talking to her; and once she asked me if you admired fair women, and
if you did not think Mrs. Grey very beautiful; and when I said yes, I
remember she turned very pale and did not answer."
"I never thought of this," he returned, in a tone of grief. "It must
have been one of her sick fancies, poor unhappy child--as though my
heart had ever swerved from her for an instant. What do you think,
Margaret, could she care for the blind man still?"
"More than ever, dear. If I know Crystal, her heart has belonged to
you from a child."
"There speaks my comforter"--with one of his rare smiles; "you are
always good to me, Madge. Now read to me a little, and let me banish
these weary thoughts. One little clew--one faint hint--and I would
keep my word and seek for her; but, as you say, we must have patience
a little longer," and Raby straightened himself and composed himself
to listen, and they sat there until the evening sunshine began to
creep about the sun-dial, and it was time for Raby to walk over to
Pierrepoint.
It is well for some of us that coming events do not always cast their
shadow before; that we lie down to rest in happy ignorance of what the
next day may bring forth. As Margaret looked out on the moonlight that
evening, she little thought that that Sunday was the last day of her
happy girlhood--that the morrow held a bitter trial in store for her.
She was sitting alone in the morning-room, the next afternoon, when
Sir Wilfred Redmond was announced, and the next moment the old man
entered the room.
A faint blush came to Margaret's cheeks as she rose to greet him. This
visit meant recognition of her as his son's _fiancée_; and yet, why
did he come alone--why was not Hugh with him? Hugh's father was almost
a stranger to her. He was a man of reserved habits, who had never been
very sociable with his neighbors, and Margaret had seen little of him
in her girlish days.
"It is very good of you to come so soon, Sir Wilfred," she said,
blushing still more rosily under his penetrating glance. "I am so
sorry that my brother is out; he has gone over to Pierrepoint."
"I came here to see you and not your brother," returned Sir Wilfred;
but he did not look at her as he spoke, and Margaret noticed that he
seemed rather nervous. "My business is with you, Miss Ferrers; I have
just heard strange news--that you and my son are engaged; is that
true?"
Margaret bowed her head. She thought Sir Wilfred's manner rather
singular--he had met her with coldness; there was certainly no trace
of warmth, no cordiality in the loose grasp of her hand. She wondered
what made him speak in that dry, measured voice, and why, after his
first keen glance at her, he had averted his eyes. He looked older
than he had done yesterday, and there was a harassed expression in his
face. "It is rather strange," he went on, "that Hugh should have left
me in ignorance all these months, but that"--as Margaret seemed about
to speak--"is between me and him, I do not include you in the blame.
On the contrary,"--speaking now with some degree of feeling--"I am
sorry for you, Miss Ferrers, for I have come to tell you, what Hugh
refuses to do, that I can not consent to my son's marrying you."
Margaret started, and the proud indignant color rose to her face; but
she restrained herself.
"May I ask your reason, Sir Wilfred?"
"I have a very good, sufficient reason," returned the old man, sadly;
"Hugh is my only son."
"I do not understand--"
"Perhaps not, and it is my painful task to enlighten you, Miss
Ferrers," hesitating a little, "I do not wonder at my son's choice,
now I see you; I am quite sure that you are all he represents you to
be; that in all respects you are fitted to be the wife of a wealthier
man than Hugh. But for my boy's sake I am compelled to appeal to your
generosity, your sense of right, and ask you to give him up."
"I can not give your son up," returned Margaret, with noble frankness;
"I am promised to him, and we love each other dearly."
"I know that," and for a moment Sir Wilfred's eyes rested on the
beautiful face before him with mingled admiration and pain, and his
voice softened insensibly. "My dear, I know how my boy loves you, how
his whole heart is centered on you. I can do nothing with him--he will
not listen to reason; his passion for you is overmastering, and blinds
him to his best interest. I have come to you to help me save him in
spite of himself."
At this solemn adjuration Margaret's face grew pale, and for the first
time her courage forsook her.
"I can not bear this," she returned, and her young voice grew thin and
sharp. "Why do you not speak plainly and tell me what you mean? Why do
you ask me to save Hugh--my Hugh--when I am ready to give up my whole
life to him? You speak as if his marriage with me would bring him a
curse."
"As it most surely would to him and to his children, Miss Ferrers.
Margaret--I may call you Margaret, for I knew you as a child--it is no
fault of yours if that be the truth. My dear, has no one told you
about your mother?"
She looked at him with wide-open, startled eyes. "My mother, Sir
Wilfred! no, I was only seven when she died. I think," knitting her
white brows as though she were trying to recall that childish past,
"that she was very ill--she had to go away for a long time, and my
poor father seemed very sad. I remember he cried dreadfully at her
funeral, and Raby told me I ought to have cried too."
"I loved your mother, Margaret," returned the old man, and his mouth
twitched under his white mustache. "You are not like her; she was
dark, but very beautiful. Yes, she was ill, with that deadly
hereditary illness that we call by another name; so ill that for years
before her death her husband could not see her."
"You mean--" asked Margaret, but her dry white lips refused to finish
the sentence. Sir Wilfred looked at her pityingly, as he answered--
"She was insane. It was in the family--they told me so, and that was
why I did not ask her to marry me. She was beautiful, and so many
loved her--your father and I among the number. Now you know, Margaret,
that while my heart bleeds for you both, I ask you to release my son."