THE HAY-FIELD FÊTE.
Scarcely were the young amateur haymakers, who, by-the-by, were
furnished with light forks and rakes suited to such delicate hands as
those of the ladies—scarcely were all engaged in raking and throwing
up the hay into wainrow under the generalship of George Woodburn,
with much mutual merriment over one another’s awkwardness, and over
Thorsby’s mercurial capers and flourishes—when a novel sight arrested
their attention, and brought them all to a full stand. It was a long
procession of the labourers, each carrying a dish, and marshalled
and watched over by Betty Trapps. The men had finished their own
dinners in the house, and were now, on the return to the field, made
the bearers of the viands for the gentry. Clumsy as such Ganymedes
might be supposed, they had in their time been often employed to
carry eggs and young lambs, as well as most of them babies, and they
executed their task without a single stumble; and soon, according
to custom, a horn was sonorously blown at the tent-door to call the
party to dinner. All came trooping in free array, like a happy flock
of pigeons dropping down to their barley at the barndoor. There
were no leadings-in of ladies, but all came laughing and chatting
amongst each other, and found an excellent dinner awaiting them. I
shall not chronicle the courses; my readers can imagine all sorts
of delicacies, to which the merry troop, seating themselves without
any regard to precedence, seemed ready to do ample justice. Somehow,
however, Dr. Leroy happened to find his seat at the elbow of Miss
Millicent Heritage, beaming with radiance of youth and beauty from
beneath those jetty eye-lashes; Harry Thorsby, by an equal chance,
sate close to Letty, whose fair, fresh, heart-lit features cast a
sunshine round her; and George, the grave but genial George Woodburn,
occupied a place betwixt Mr. and Mrs. Degge, to whom he could show
all attention. Mr. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage were neighbours, and
seemed to have much of interest to talk of, in which Ann and her
mother occasionally joined, but what they said could not be heard
from the clatter of plates and youthful tongues in full play.
Betty Trapps, and Tom Boddily, in his old soldier’s coat, waited on
the company; and Sylvanus Crook, as something more than a servant,
had a seat amongst the guests. No happier party ever dined under an
oak in a tented field, as Thorsby called it. It was wonderful, too,
to see the dexterity and ability with which Tom Boddily performed
his office. Ever and anon Thorsby had a witty word with him, and Tom
was never without his answer. “Where didst thou learn to serve at
table so nicely?” asked Mrs. Heritage.
“With my captain, madam.”
“Oh! thou hast been in the army?”
“Yes, madam, served fifteen years.”
“And wast thou in any battles?”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say that I haven’t been in battles, but none
where much powder was spent. I was in the militia.”
“Oh! that was it. Thou never wast out of England?”
“No, madam.”
“And thy captain?”
“That’s the present Squire Chillington, madam. I wor his servant many
years while in the regiment.”
“And how camest thee to leave him?”
Tom looked significant; a smile stole round his mouth. “Well, the
captain, ma’am, left me.”
“Oh, indeed! I hope thou hast not offended him justly, anyway?”
“No, madam, oh no! not in the least; but people may know too much,
and it is inconvenient.”
There was some laughter. “Chillington, we all know, has been a very
wild fellow,” said Mr. Woodburn; “was it not so, Tom?”
“True, sir, true,” said Tom.
“Tell us a little about him, when you were with him, Tom,” said Harry
Thorsby.
“Well,” said Tom, as he continued to run about, changing plates
and attending to everybody’s wants, “I don’t like telling tales
out of school; but since my old master signed the warrant with
Squire Bullockshed for picking up a hare that I happened to see in
a snickle”—here Tom was drowned in a loud burst of laughter from
the gentlemen—“since he did that, I don’t feel so tongue-tied as
afore. Well, it is true enough, my captain did sow his wild oats
pretty freely. It was a gay time, that regimental time. What with
a splendid mess, and fine horses, and dogs, and fine”—Tom hesitated
a moment—“fine people of one sort or another, money did go, though.
My captain blazed away faster than any of them. Wasn’t he heir to
the fine old estate of Beech-Lees? Well, it was the old story: my
captain wor continually out at the elbows. Money, money, money wor
always wanted. The governor, as he called him, that wor his honoured
father, after a while stopped dead short, and wouldn’t out with a
stiver. ‘Tom,’ he said—that worn’t me, it wor my captain, he wor
named Thomas—‘Tom,’ he said, ‘must live on his pay.’ Live on his pay!
The pay of the whole regiment wouldn’t have done for him. Well, he
used to write to his father’s steward to send him money, telling him
he should find the good of it when he came to the estate. And the
steward sent him money for awhile, but then he writ that the Squire
had got an inkling of what he was doing, and kept such a strict
ferreting into the books, that it was all up in that quarter. The
steward remained a good sum out of pocket.
“I believe my captain had managed to borrow considerable sums of the
Jews on what are called past-a-bits, but the Squire soon let them
know that the estate wasn’t entailed, and that was up too, and the
Jews were as keen after him as so many hounds after a hare. As to
borrowing of any of the brother officers, they were all pretty much
of a muchness, that is, they were all very able to borrow, but not to
lend. There was only one of them that was able to lend, and that was
the Major, and he had the unfortunate name of Need.”—Much laughter,
and loud cachination, or what Betty Trapps called crowing, from
Thorsby.—“Major Need was always in need. You might as well have asked
fire of a fish as money of the Major. He always pleaded poverty, and
said the mess was really so extravagant, he should get all the leave
of absence that he could. And you may believe me, he did spend the
greater part of his time at home. And what was he doing? Why, he was
just as busy as a bee in planting a vast lot of poor, sandy land that
he had with larch trees. There he was, while my captain and the rest
of the officers were sowing their wild oats, always busy in sowing
larch seed, and having a lot of men at work planting the young trees
out as they grew. There you might see this poor man, who never had a
penny to lend to a brother officer in distress, riding away to his
beggarly land not worth a rent of a shilling an acre, mounted on a
sturdy pony, bearing a sort of bag slung on his back, with his dinner
in it, and a big pruning-knife and a little saw in it besides—going,
he was, to prune his larches as they wanted it, and keep a sharp eye
on his men at work. Well, I was that way the other day, and bless my
stars! what a vast of fine woods that man has, and they tell me he
is as rich as a duke, him that in our regiment’s time never had a
penny to lend or spend.
“Well, it came to a sharp pass at last with my captain. The lady
asked if I had been in any battles. Ay, troth, I was at that time
in battles enow, with those unreasonablest of varmint, called duns.
My captain would have been awlis in prison if mother nature had not
blest me with a good share of contrivance, and a skull that could
stand sharp acquaintance with constables’ staffs. Oh! if I do miss
heaven at last, it will be for all the lies I told them, for my
captain. How often I have sworn that he was gone down to see his
honoured father, who was on his death-bed, when all the while he was
trembling in every limb behind the door that I held in their faces.
“Once I was nearly sold. Oh, my gracious! didn’t my heart leap into
my mouth! Things were come to such a pass that something very
ingenious must be thought of. ‘I have it,’ said I to the captain.
‘I’ll hire a coffin, and when they come I’ll say you’re just dead.’
‘No, Tom!’ he said, ‘no; that won’t do.’ Then said I, ‘I give in,
and there’s nothing for it but the debtor’s gaol.’ Well, that cowed
him. ‘Do as you like, Tom,’ said he; and very soon I had hired a good
oak-coffin and gilt breastplate from the undertaker just by. ‘Now,’
said I, ‘when these fellows come thundering to-day, as I hear they
will—they swear they’ll break locks—you just lie down in a sheet, and
leave the rest to me.’
“Well, no sooner said than done. I had hardly time to lock the door,
and compose my captain’s goodly limbs decently in the coffin, and
put the lid loosely on, when, bang! came the constables at the door.
Quick, quick did I open. ‘Oh, is it you?’ said I, sobbing bitterly,
and with brooks of water running from my eyes, for I had a famous
strong onion hidden in my handkerchief. ‘Oh! come in,’ said I, ‘come
in, and see what you’ve done. You’ve broken his heart at last. There
he lies! Oh, enjoy the sight—do, do! Enjoy the misery you have
made. Oh! what hearts are bleeding down the country there for this
handsome, good-hearted young gentleman that you’ve killed!’
“I off with the coffin-lid—ghastly looked my captain’s face, with
whiting that I had daubed it with. ‘There!’ said I, ‘you’ve killed
him. Your worrying had brought him so low, he catched the typhus,
and——’ Here my tears stopped my voice. ‘Fie! typhus!’ exclaimed
the fellows in horror, and out they brushed. But it was nearly all
ruination. My captain, impatient of his coffin, lifted his head
before they were well out of the door, and said, laughing, ‘Are those
scamps gone?’ Quick one of the constables turned, ‘Didn’t I hear
something? Didn’t I see something stir?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said I, ‘you
saw the wind from the door blow the shroud up, and with it, no doubt,
the air of the fever. Ha! away!—it is as much as your life is worth.’
The man bolted, and for that time all was right. But it was a very
near touch, with the captain’s impatience.” (Loud Hear, hears! and
much laughter.)
“Lucky for us, the regiment marched next day, and my captain had gone
off in the night. But at our next quarters it was not much better.
The captain was clean swept out of money, trinkets, and of almost
all his clothes. He had a gold watch which his mother had given
him. It cost forty guineas, and that he had kept through all. One
day he said to me on the parade ground, ‘Tom, I have left my watch
on the chimney-piece in my room. Fetch it, or I shall not know when
to dismiss the men.’ I knew very well what it meant. He could have
dismissed the men well enough, for the town-hall clock was right
opposite to him, as he fronted the ranks. I knew that he meant at
last to take it to my uncle.”
“Hadst thou an uncle living there?” interrupted Mrs. Heritage.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Tom, drily. “Poor men have uncles everywhere,
and very kind ones; their doors always stand open to them.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Heritage, in her wealthy
ignorance of such uncles, and amid the stifled merriment of the young
people.
“What I mean,” said Tom, “is, he meant to put it up the spout.”
“Up the spout!” said Mrs. Heritage, in augmented astonishment. “He
meant to hide it?”
Tom nodded assent.
“He meant to pawn it, he means,” said Mr. Woodburn. “That’s his
slang,” seeing that Thorsby’s good manners were choking him.
“Oh, that was it!” said Mrs. Heritage.
“Yes, that was just it,” said Tom. “I went off with a sad heart on
the errand, but I soon had a sadder. When I went into my captain’s
room, the watch was not there. I called the landlady, and said, ‘Who
has taken Captain Chillington’s watch away?’
“‘His watch?’ said the landlady, ‘why, he sent for it!’
“‘Sent for it!—by whom?’ said I.
“‘Why, a young man, in a dark grey livery and silver-laced hat, came
for it. He said he was Major Need’s man, and Captain Chillington had
asked him to come and fetch his watch from the parlour mantel-piece,
and his overcoat from the peg in the passage.’
“The ground seemed opening under my feet. ‘Did he say where the watch
was?’
“‘Yes,’ said the landlady.
“‘And the overcoat on the peg?’
“‘He did,’ said she, now all in a tremor of fright. ‘He seemed to
know so exactly all about them, that I never suspected nothing at
all.’
“‘And the coat’s gone, too?’ said I, looking into the passage.
“‘That’s sartain,’ said the woman.
“I rushed out; there was no time to lose. I ran round to all the
pawnbrokers first; then to the police-office; then to the town-crier.
I offered five pounds reward to any one who would detect the thief;
I did that on my own head; I did not go to the parade—it would have
been of no use—it would have been over—and I did not like to break
the news. When I came back chop-fallen to our lodgings, there was my
captain. The landlady had told him all. There he sate, dropped down
into a low chair, and he looked now more like a corpse than he did
in the coffin. He never spoke. I was horribly afraid that he’d go
off into an apoplexy, or something, or lose his senses. ‘Captain,’
said I, ‘you’ve heard it.’ He never moved. ‘Captain!’ said I again,
louder, and shook him by the shoulder. ‘It is no use sorrowing or
fretting, we must be wide awake to recover the property.’
“Then he gave a great sigh, and seemed to rouse a little. ‘It is of
no use,’ he said; ‘that was an old hand, that thief. Catch a weazel
asleep, and shave his eye-brows. You’ll never catch that scamp. It is
all up, Boddily. That was my last throw. There is not a single stone
in this cursed world left unturned,’ and he went quite stupid and
stony again.
“‘Captain,’ said I, ‘it is of no use talking that way. We must be
after the fellow, we shall catch him before he leaves the town. Faint
heart never won fair lady. Rouse, captain, rouse; we’ll have him yet,
and all will be well.’
“But you might as well have tried to rouse a milestone. At last he
burst into tears, and he cried like a child, and rocked to and fro in
his chair with his face buried in his hands. He sprang up suddenly,
and snatched a pistol from the mantel-piece; I tore it from his hand.
“‘Are you mad, captain?’ I said. ‘Would you go headlong to
everlasting destruction, and kill your mother with grief?’ That
seemed to sober him a little. ‘Cheer up,’ said I; ‘it’s an old
saying, “When things come to the worst, they begin to mend.”’
“‘Never with me, Tom,’ he said, throwing himself down, and looking
the pictur o’ despair. ‘Never with me—all’s up. I’m a doomed
man—nothing prospers with me.’
“I could have told him why they did not prosper, soon enough; but
he’d enough on him without any cut from me. As for me, I was at my
wits’ end. How should I manage to keep him from laying violent hands
on himself? I was about to ring for the landlady, and, while telling
her to bring some brandy, whisper to her to run for help—when, bang!
comes a thundering knock at the door. ‘Lock it, quick, woman!’ said
I. But even that did not rouse my captain. ‘They are there, again,
let them come,’ he said—‘let them do their worst.’
“The landlady, however, had opened the door on the chain. Women
are awlis sharper about such things than we are. In she comes with
a letter and a great black seal with a coat of arms. The captain
glanced at it,—he pounced on it like a hawk—he tore it open and read.
His hand trembled, then shook violently—the letter dropped, and he
dropped, too. I caught him in my arms. ‘Water!’ I cried, ‘water!
brandy!’ The landlady flew. We drenched him with water; we tried to
force some brandy between his teeth, but couldn’t. They were set as
fast as rocks. At length he gave a deep sike (sigh), opened his eyes,
and drank off the whole glass of brandy.
“‘Troubles never comes alone,’ he said, beginning to speak. ‘The
governor is dead, Tom; we must be off to-night for Beech-Lees; run
and take our places in the night-coach.’ He tried to look as if the
blow of this news had been a stunner, but I could see that it was
huge relief. Mountains were off his shoulders. The governor was
past all _his_ troubles, and there was that fine old property of
Beech-Lees. I had no further fear about my captain.
“‘But,’ said I—‘I’ll run to the coach—but the money for the fares?’
“‘Oh!’ said he, looking about for the fallen letter, ‘there’s money
enough.’
“I picked it up, and another bit of paper.
“‘That’s it,’ said he. ‘There’s no want of money, now.’ It was a Bank
of England note for one hundred pounds. ‘Get the Major to change it
into small notes,’ he said. ‘He has always bushels of them.’
“I was running out to take our places, when I went slap up against a
constable. ‘The carrion have got scent of the carcass already,’ said
I to myself. The next moment I saw my captain’s gold watch in his
hand. ‘We have found this,’ he said, ‘at a pawnbroker’s, pledged for
five pounds.’ ‘All right,’ said the captain. ‘Catch the man, and I’ll
give you fifty pounds, and come and prosecute the thief.’
“He took the watch. ‘That’s it,’ he said; and put it in his pocket.
“‘But we shall want that,’ said the man, ‘when we charge the thief
before the magistrate.’
“‘Catch your hare, and then we’ll cook him,’ said my captain, now
grown quite cheery. The man looked as if he would have the watch back
to produce in court. ‘When you have the thief,’ said the captain,
‘you will have both the watch and myself to produce; in the meantime,
Tom, take this good fellow, and give him a couple of guineas, for
his present trouble; be quick, we have no time to spare.’
“That night we were on the way; the next morning we were at
Beech-Lees. Soon after Captain Chillington got married, and made a
thorough change in his establishment. Among the rest, I went to the
wall; but I would not have minded, after all we suffered together
in our sogering days, if he hadn’t signed that warrant of Squire
Bullockshed’s. That was a cut that will stick by me till the day of
my death.”
By this time, the dinner was over, the dishes all removed, for Tom
Boddily had been rapidly serving and changing all the time he talked.
A splendid dessert was set on the table, of grapes and peaches from
the hot-houses of Rockville, mellow gooseberries, raspberries,
strawberries, and cherries from the Grange garden; and Tom made his
bow amid many thanks for his story, and withdrew with Betty Trapps,
to play his part amongst the wainrows. Great commendations were
heaped on Tom for his ability in both telling a story and waiting at
table, and his services were not likely to be neglected on fitting
occasions from that day.
Soon after this, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage rose and
walked out into the pleasant sunny air of the field. A soft breeze
was blowing, or rather breathing over the warm, dry country. Mr.
Woodburn joined Mr. and Mrs. Degge, and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs.
Heritage wandered up the field where it was cleared of the hay, and
seated themselves on a bank beneath a noble crab-apple-tree covered
with green fruit. They appeared deeply absorbed in conversation,
and any one listening might have caught frequently the names of Sir
Emanuel Clavering, his son Henry, and of Ann Woodburn. There was a
mother’s care in the usually bright and comely face of Mrs. Woodburn:
there was higher care in the noble countenance of Mrs. Heritage.
“Then thou dost not think,” she said, looking earnestly at Mrs.
Woodburn, “that he really does practise ungodly arts?”
“Oh, no!” replied Mrs. Woodburn. “That is all the silly talk of the
silly, superstitious country people—that is, country people of all
sorts—for the farmers are as superstitious as the labourers: and when
Sir Emanuel appeared at the hustings at Castleborough to nominate a
friend of his as candidate for a parliamentary seat for the county,
the farmers set up a great yell, and would not hear him, saying,
‘That is old Clavering who deals with the Devil.’ But it is all
because he is a great astronomer, and is seen going out at night to
his observatory. The truth is, as I believe—and a sad truth it is, he
does not believe in our Saviour.”
“Oh! how very sad! how very deplorable!” said the pious-hearted
Friend. “I feel greatly drawn to speak with him on the subject. Such
a very clever and agreeable man as he is; and to be so far overseen.
Truly it is sad that this world’s knowledge makes us blind. And his
son Henry, dost thou think he has instilled these unhappy sentiments
into him?”
Here Mrs. Woodburn bent closer to her friend, and the conversation
became still more earnest and engrossing, but carried on in a low
tone, and with many pauses, and significant looks and gestures, and
not unfrequent deeply-drawn sighs.
But the sounds from the tent below, which had been hitherto those
of a continuous clatter of tongues, and of merry laughter, now came
forth in a chorus of singing voices, in which the bass tones of
Thorsby were predominant amid the clear, sweet voices of the young
ladies. The tent was like a great cage of warbling birds, or as
Mrs. Woodburn said, of happy angels. “Oh!” said she, “I do love to
see young people happy. No one knows what after-life may bring. For
youth—so a poem which I saw in the newspaper the other day said—
‘It is the time of roses,
They pluck them as they pass.’”
“I only hope,” said the careful Mrs. Heritage, “that they won’t teach
my Millicent any vanities. She is naturally, I think, only too fond
of music and singing; and thou knowest our Society sees such a snare
in these things.”
“Oh! my dear Mrs. Heritage, Miss Heritage will hear nothing here but
what is perfectly good. They have been singing only Burns’s sweet
‘Banks and Braes o’ bonnie Doon.’”
To the fair Friend, whatever might be the moral qualities of “Bonnie
Doon” was all unknown; but the discussion was cut short by the whole
youthful troop issuing from the tent, and going briskly across the
field, and disappearing in a wood that ran down towards the river.
Nothing more was heard of them till tea-time, except an occasional
call of a clear, female voice, or a note of laughter, for awhile,
and then all was still. About five o’clock, the workmen having their
“four-o’-clock,” as it is termed, amid the haycocks, were seen
bringing up the apparatus and materials for tea, which was not set
out in the tent, but this time amongst the hay in front, abundance
of cushions being brought for the company to sit upon. Once more the
horn was lustily winded, this time by Mr. Woodburn, George having
gone off with the rest of the young people: and, anon, like Robin
Hood and his men, they were seen coming gaily over the hill.
They all came in glowing with heat and evident pleasure. Letty
Woodburn looked like a sylph, but a very rosy one, all light and
gladness, as if ready to fly away: even the gentle Millicent’s clear
blue eyes flashed a radiant enjoyment. According to their account
they had been taking botanic lessons from Dr. Leroy, and had suddenly
come upon Mr. Thomas Clavering, the rector of Cotmanhaye, fishing
in the river, who had amused them with a world of anecdotes about
birds and animals. He had assured them that he had seen a jay with
an audience of wondering birds all around him on a tree, whom he was
astonishing by the cleverest imitations of different singing birds.
Thereupon Sylvanus Crook said he quite believed that. He was “quite
satisfied that birds sing songs of praise to their Creator quite
intelligible to birds.”
“But,” said Harry Thorsby, “they always sing the same airs.”
“Yes, Henry Thorsby, it may seem so to thee; but in my opinion, if we
could understand them, we should find them poets far beyond many of
our own kind. They do not, indeed, sing about men’s actions, but of
the goodness of God to birds, and of the beauties and pleasures of
creation. Hast thou not heard, friend Henry, of the Eastern Sultan’s
minister who knew the language of birds?”
“Oh! that’s a fable, friend Crook,” said Thorsby, “an Eastern
apologue.”
“Maybe,” said Sylvanus; “but I think that is a very beautiful
observation of Izaak Walton, the great angler; who on hearing the
nightingale sing, said:—‘If God gave such music here to the wicked
and ungrateful, what will He give to his saints in heaven?’”
“So you do like music after all, friend Crook?” asked Thorsby,
sarcastically.
“Yes, natural music,” said Sylvanus, and Harry Thorsby was girding
him up for a regular dispute on the Friend’s objection to music,
but he was prevented by all seconding Sylvanus’s quotation of Izaak
Walton as extremely beautiful, and by Mr. Woodburn asking Tom Boddily
what he had been doing lately, intending to draw out some of his
country humour.
“I’ve been a little on my travels,” said Tom.
“Oh, indeed! where?”
“Well, I crossed an arm of the sea, as my companion, simple Simon
Grainger, called it, and got into a country on the other side.”
“Ah! where did you cross this arm of the sea?”
“At a place called Sawley.”
“Sawley!” said several voices at once. “Why, that is on the Trent,
Tom.”
“Well, I dare say it is; but Grainger, who never was five miles from
home, insisted that it was an arm of the sea.”
“And what did you do on the other side, Tom?”
“We were employed in getting gravel for roads out of the river Soar
with a machine, and Grainger had a fine opportunity of earning a
guinea in less time than he ever earned a groat in his life, if he
had had faith enough.”
“Not faith enough?”
“No,” said Tom. “You see, a gentleman, as he was crossing the ferry
near us, pulled out his gold watch to look at the time, and let it
drop into the river. It was quite plain to be seen, for the river
is as clear almost as air, but it was deeper than it seemed. The
gentleman tried to get it up with his stick, but could not reach
it, and he offered a guinea to any of the passengers as would fetch
it up. None of them would. So the ferryman calls to us, and says to
Grainger, ‘Old fellow, you’ve good six feet of stuff in you; just
jump in and get hold of the watch, and there’s a guinea for you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Grainger; ‘don’t you believe it; I can trust
God Almighty on the ground, or in a tree, but not i’ th’ water.’ It
was no use urging him. ‘Stop a minute,’ said I, ‘I’m but a short ‘un,
but there are more ways than one of roasting apples.’ So I asked the
gentleman to lend me his stick. ‘It’s not long enough, my man,’ says
he. ‘Isn’t it?’ says I, taking the stick. I just laid mysen down on
the boat, stripped my arm bare to the shoulder, and in a jiffy I had
twisted the hook of the stick into the guard-chain, and up comes the
watch, and down goes the guinea into my pocket. ‘There’s not much of
thee,’ said the gentleman, looking at me, as he handed me the guinea;
‘but thou’st got thy share of brains.’”
Sylvanus thought Grainger’s speech almost impious, not to trust God
in the water as well as on the land. “Ah! poor, ignorant man,” said
Mrs. Heritage, “his faith only stops short at one point, and ours at
another. Is there not a limit to the faith of every one of us?” she
asked. “Would not Sylvanus find a limit to his faith in some other
direction?”
“Ay, that he would,” said Thorsby, as he lay kicking his legs about
in the hay. “Let him walk over burning ploughshares as they did in
the middle ages.”
“As for that,” said Sylvanus, “I could walk over them readily enough,
but I would decline walking upon them.”
“Would your faith enable you to climb up the church-steeple and stand
on the weather-cock, and turn round upon it, as a foolish fellow did
the other day?”
“No,” said Sylvanus, “there, friend Henry, thou hast indeed found my
limit. My faith is not a foolish faith. I would not tempt Providence.”
“Well, dear friends,” said Mrs. Heritage, as if afraid that the
conversation might take a rather caustic turn, “I think the evening
warns us to remove. Dear Millicent, draw thy shawl round thee, and
our other dear young women friends I would caution to do the same.
You have been warm with your little excursion. And here I would
remark that it is the custom of our Society on social occasions,
sometimes to drop into a little solemn silence, in which something
beneficial may arise in our minds. I would kindly invite you to such
an exercise.”
When all had fallen into a silence, which to some of them was a
rather curious thing amid the pleasures of a festive day, Mrs.
Heritage, at first in a soft and musical voice, which by degrees
acquired depth and earnestness, said—“Dear friends, this has been a
beautiful, and to all of us, I think, a very happy day. Let us not
forget to be grateful to the Giver of it, and of all good gifts.
Days come and go, and, however stationary we may seem, we are going
with them. The bloom and gaiety of youth, beautiful as it is, is
evanescent as the glories of yon western sky.”
At these words all involuntarily turned, and saw one of the most
glorious and gorgeous spectacles imaginable. All the western sky was
flooded with waves of gold and purple, burning in and through clouds
of richest magnificence. An opening in them gave passage to the blaze
of the departing sun, and resembled the gates of heaven thrown wide,
and, within them, far receding regions of celestial splendour. All
below, under the effect of this intense radiance, looked dark and
mysterious, like a weird land of cimmerian shadow that might hide
some mystery.
The fair speaker paused awhile as every eye was earnestly fixed on
the scene, then went on, as if speaking the thought of every bosom.
“Truly ‘this may be said to be the house of God, and this is the gate
of heaven.’ What power but that of almighty wisdom could suddenly put
forth a celestial emblazonment like that? What architect could design
such a wondrous and portentous portal to imperial city or palace?
What painter could suffuse it with hues and glories so divine? Yet,
such is the prodigality of the Omnipotent Artist, who has sent forth,
in a moment almost, that glorious vision, that in a few moments He
will suffer it to depart, as if it were of no value. We, or most of
us, visit the galleries of great painters; we gaze in enthusiasm on
the imitations of nature which they hang upon our walls, and decree
immortality to them for their inspired achievement; yet the King
of artists every day spreads before our eyes, and the eyes of the
simplest and the poorest, landscapes and aerial paintings which no
mortal hand can ever equal, and no man lays it to heart. The peasant,
returning home at this hour along some solitary vale, sees a picture
such as no so-called immortal master ever accomplished, such as no
king’s house can boast. Yet we feel no wonder; we utter no praise.
Behold! and the marvellous scene is gone!”
All again turned, and saw but a grey, dull sky, and below the
solemn gloom deepened into intense blackness. The speaker paused;
her fair, finely-developed face, seemed rapt as into an ecstasy,
still and passionless; it was as if the inner eye looked spirit-like
through the outer, and saw deep into the looming night of the western
quarter. A deep sigh escaped her, and with softer and strangely
thrilling tones, she said,
“I feel it, dear friends, laid solemnly upon me to utter words which
seem not to befit a day of gladness. My spirit wrestles with it,
and would flee from the burden, as the Hebrew prophet fled from the
burden of Nineveh; but a mightier, holier power compels me, and I
must obey.” A strange shudder passed through the youthful listeners,
and Letty, greatly excited, half sprang up and cried, “Oh, don’t!
don’t!” But George quietly held her down, and put his arm round
her, clasping her with brotherly affection. The speaker, as if
unconscious of the sensation she had evoked, went on.
“Beautiful, very beautiful was yonder sky; beautiful, very beautiful
are the days which have passed here. Dark, however, the gloom which
underlay that glory of colours. I feel some of us, perhaps many of
us, perhaps all, more or less, baptised into that darkness. We are
passing deep into its shadowy regions. We are pilgrims and wayfarers
through the valley of the shadow of death, through the midnight
wastes of blackness and despair. Oh! thou heavenly and tender Father!
extend thy omnipotent hand. Lift us over the torrents rolling through
the deep, deep darkness; bear us up in thy loving, unforsaking arms!”
The speaker paused, and sate still as a stone image. Her eyes were
open, but the awed and affrighted circle could not tell for their
lives on what they rested. Again, slowly lifting her hand, and
pointing westward, she said—
“Yes, ever-living, ever-merciful Father, Thou dost lead us. It is
borne in upon my heart to know and feel that to all who hold fast
their faith, there shall be a safe re-issue from the temporary gloom.
Not a hair shall fall from the head of any of us. Thou wilt baptise
us into sorrow, only to inspire us with wisdom, with faith, with
love. Over that gloom of a little time, again the heavenly glow of
Thy divine pencil, the radiance of Thy inner and inexhaustible beams
of beauty, shall steal abroad; and the latter shall be lovelier,
though more subdued, than the former pageant. All Thy colours of life
shall be clearer, purer, more lofty, more etherial. The after-glow of
our evening shall be more tenderly fair, more serenely blessed, than
our noon has been strong and rejoicing. Amen!”
During the latter part of this startling address, the eyes of the
company had mechanically followed the hand of the speaker, and saw
the colours of the sunset once more travel out, kindle anew, as it
were, all over the western sky in most exquisite and trancelike
beauty. It seemed as if the inspired woman had command of the
elements, and that their magic limnings followed the motion of her
hand; the soul within, however, did but follow the course of nature
and the promptings of God. How often, in future years, did every
member of that company reflect on these words with wonder, though
they now somewhat offended the sense of fitness in many of those who
deemed auguries of evil ill-timed as the finale of a day of youthful
rejoicing. The speaker, however, rose up, and, without any apology,
shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, said “Farewell” to her
young friends, and taking Millicent’s arm, walked silently towards
the Grange, at whose gate her carriage and that of the Degges were
waiting to take them home.
All the rest followed in silence. At the gate of the Grange Mr.
Woodburn pressed Mrs. Heritage to go in and take some supper, but she
declined, the carriages rolled away, and the company dispersed. Harry
Thorsby, however, went in, and remained for some time. But no one was
inclined for supper, though a very charming one was set out, with
abundance of creams, and custards, and other rural dainties. Letty
was in a state of strange excitement. She appeared quite hysterical,
now bursting into tears, now laughing outright, and at length sunk
down in a fainting fit on the sofa. There was great alarm and
agitation; but Mr. Woodburn said, “Be quiet; don’t disturb her; only
stand back, and let her have air; she will soon be better.”
“It is that silly, preaching woman,” said Thorsby. “What does she
mean by coming here and croaking of all sorts of trouble, like a
confounded old beldame as she is?”
“Gently!” said Leonard Woodburn. “If no evil is meant us, Mrs.
Heritage cannot and does not wish to bring it. If some evil does
impend over us—for what mortal shall say that he is insurance-proof
against it?—let us rather pray earnestly that it may be averted,
or that we may have strength given us to bear it. But all that she
means, probably, are the inevitable trials that this life sends us
all. It is merely her Quaker language.”
By this time Letty had recovered her consciousness, opened her eyes,
sprung up, saying, “Oh! what have I been doing? Why are you all
standing there, and looking so strange?”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Woodburn, kissing her, “you were too much
excited by Mrs. Heritage’s sermon; you have fainted; you had better
go to bed.”
Letty gave a shudder, wiped her face, on which the tears stood
glittering, and said, “Oh, why _did_ she talk so! What _could_
possess her! Yes, mother dear, I will go to bed.” She smiled, kissed
her father, throwing her arms round his neck, shook hands with the
rest, and sprang away upstairs, followed by Ann—who was also deeply
moved—and her mother.