THE BRIDAL PAIR.
IN less than three weeks from the hour when they bade adieu to Monsieur
D'Ortey, they landed on the shores of their native land, and lost no
time in proceeding to the city where their guardian resided.
From this place Helen at once hastened to Morrisville by the new line
of cars which carried her within a hundred rods of her aunt's house.
Reaching the handsome depot finished during her absence, she left her
baggage in the care of the depot-master and with her travelling bag on
her arm started to walk home.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and she was hastening her steps when she
overtook an old gentleman, and to her delight recognized Mr. Knowles.
Putting her arm in his, she began to ask a multitude of questions
concerning those she loved.
"Frederic is in the city," he said. "Your aunt is in her usual health,
and will welcome you with open arms."
"How long has Frederic been gone?"
"Less than a week. He is engaged with lawyers in trying to ferret out
some of the iniquities which have been going on under a cloak of piety.
I suppose you have heard—"
"Yes, sir, all," she exclaimed, interrupting him. "You see I read Mr.
Tracy's character correctly.
"When will Frederic be back," she added, with some impatience. "Frank
is in the city to attend to business."
"Immediately, I should suppose. He sent for me to supply his pulpit
next Sabbath."
Helen found her aunt stronger than when she left home. She received her
niece with tears of joy. And when Helen hung over her with words of
love, said with emotion:
"Dear child, I did not realize what your presence was to me until you
went away."
In the excitement of meeting old friends, Helen did not notice the
change which had taken place in Mr. Knowles. The next morning she was
much pained to see that he looked exceedingly feeble, and that his gait
was less firm than when they parted.
He explained his weakness by saying: "The late revelations concerning
Mr. Tracy have shattered my nerves. I am an old man. I have lived more
than the three score and ten years allotted to man. You know what the
good book says, 'and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we
fly away.'"
Helen's eyes were dim as she pressed his hand. She had no voice to
speak.
"Yes, my dear child, I am near my end; or rather I am near the
beginning of a new life; a life, as I humbly believe, with God in
heaven. I am looking forward with bright anticipations to the hour when
I shall receive my summons. I shall see my Saviour then, and unite in
the wonderful song: 'Worthy the Lamb.'"
"Do you think the saints are always engaged in singing?" timidly
inquired Helen. "When papa died, I used to wonder how the good people
employ their time in heaven."
"My child, eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the joys that are prepared
for those who reach that happy place. But still, I think the children
of God may form some conception of the employment and bliss.
"When you first gave yourself up to the Saviour's care, trusting him to
do for you what you found you could not do for yourself, did you not
then, and have you not since, at favored intervals, enjoyed precious
views of the Father's condescension, in giving his Son to die for the
guilty? Of the boundless love which led the Lord of glory to resign
his throne, and come to earth to bear in his own body the sins of all
mankind? Have you never realized, if but for a moment, what priceless
treasures of grace and blessedness his death would bring to you? And
has not your heart burned within you, till you could only find relief
in praise? If so, and I should fear for the professed Christian who
is a stranger to such joys, then you have had a foretaste of what the
happiness and employment of heaven may be.
"Think of it, my dear. We shall see Abraham, the father of the
faithful, Isaac, Jacob, and all the patriarchs, Moses, the great
lawgiver, Joshua, the captain of Israel's hosts, Samuel, the prophet,
David, the sweet Psalmist, Solomon, the wise king, Isaiah, Jeremiah,
and all the host of worthies who followed. We may hope to converse with
Matthew, the Publican, with Mark, the Evangelist, Luke, the physician,
and John, the beloved disciple; we may hear from Paul the account of
his wonderful conversion, of his stripes and suffering, cheerfully
endured for the sake of his divine Master; and more than all, we may
see our Saviour; we may examine the print of the nails. We may look on
his matchless form, may hear his voice full of love and tenderness. We
may do all this, while exempt from the infirmities which subject us
in this world to sin and sorrow. Can we not imagine what the bliss of
heaven will be?"
"Thank you," murmured the young girl, "I shall always remember what you
have told me."
Mr. Knowles then explained that an aged member of the church had died
and was to be buried this day. "I came," he said, "by my son's request,
to aid him in the funeral services; and I then expected to remain over
the Sabbath while Frederic who would be near to Maytown, preached for
me. Now as Frederic will naturally desire to be here, I shall probably
return to-morrow."
"I can't spare you yet, I have so much to tell you, and—if I consent to
be what Frederic wishes, I must have you here."
He patted her glowing cheek, with a smile as free from care as if no
thought of death had entered his mind.
At this moment Betsey opened the door.
"Will you come to breakfast, Miss?" she asked, trying to speak in a
formal tone, but failing most lamentably. Her eyes were so full of
mirth and her whole manner so different from the usually grave Betsey,
that Helen stared at her in surprise.
But she turned to the aged man and gave him her youthful arm for a
support. She had, however scarcely left the hall before she heard a
familiar voice talking to her aunt in hurried, excited tones:
"Where is she? Has she left her room?"
Leaving her companion in the hall, Helen bounded up the stairs, and in
a moment more was in the young clergyman's arms. For one instant he
gazed into her blushing face, and then whispered:
"Thank God, I have you once more."
"Not a rich heiress, Frederic, but a poor ignorant girl, who will need
constant care and teaching to make her good for anything."
"We wont quarrel the first moment of meeting," he said, "but I give you
warning that I will not hear my wife slandered in that way; and by the
by, Helen, it must be soon.
"That's a good child," he went on, taking her silence for consent.
"With the help of God, I'll make you so happy you shall never regret
it."
"I have already made the arrangements with your father," she answered,
with one of her roguish glances. "He is to perform the ceremony."
"Of course, and when is the ceremony to be? Remember how patient I've
been."
"Must I promise to obey?" she asked, with mock solemnity.
"You shall promise nothing but to be my wife, and that in all the
duties arising from the relation, you will take the Bible for your
rule. That is easy, isn't it?"
"Oh, Frederic! I forgot to tell you that breakfast is ready; and that I
left your father standing in the hall."
"Not one step do I go until this question is settled. Shall it be
to-day?"
"No; no indeed!"
"To-morrow, then?"
"Why, I can't even get unpacked."
He noticed the quiver in her voice, and, taking her hand within his
arm, led her down to the table where Mr. Knowles was seated, with a cup
of coffee before him.
"Have you any message for Maytown, father?" he asked, quietly. "One of
my neighbors will start for that place directly after breakfast, to
accompany mother and Sybil back here. Helen wishes them to be present
at our wedding, which will take place on Thursday evening."
"Oh, Frederic! I didn't say so."
"We will also procure a preacher for Maytown, so that you can extend
your visit here, and notify Frank of the time of the ceremony."
The young girl darted from the room, and ran up to talk with her aunt.
"Mr. Knowles has deserved your submission to his wishes, my child. It
was a severe trial to him to have you leave the country last fall."
"I wish," faltered the blushing girl, "that my return might be kept
secret, at least, until after—after the wedding."
"I think we can manage that, my dear."
How glad she always was she consented. Mr. Knowles appeared as well as
usual on Wednesday and Thursday morning. But in the afternoon he had a
long talk with Frank, who, in answer to Frederic's hasty summons, had
just arrived; and afterward complained of extreme languor. He lay on
the sofa resting, for an hour or more, and then said he was relieved.
Once or twice Sybil heard him talking to himself: "I am grieved. It is
a reproach to religion. It has dishonored Christ."
He referred to Mr. Tracy, of whom Frank had been speaking.
"I wouldn't worry about it, father," Sybil expostulated.
"No," he answered, "the day will come when the chaff will be winnowed
from the wheat. Christ will know his own and claim them. There will be
no hypocrites in heaven, none to wound the Saviour in the house of his
friends."
A cup of tea, which Helen insisted on preparing to his taste, with her
own hands, much refreshed him, so that he went through the marriage
service with a firm voice.
After the ceremony, he placed his hands on the heads of the new couple,
as they instinctively knelt to receive his blessing. And every eye grew
moist as they listened to his words of love.
"My son, it will hereafter give you pleasure to remember the testimony
of your father. Your dutiful conduct in youth rendered you my joy. Your
course in later years has left me nothing to wish for, except that your
labors for Christ may be crowned with abundant success. In your sweet
home, I have here," imprinting a kiss on Helen's upturned face, "a
pledge that you will be richly blessed. She is of all the world your
parent's choice for you."
"And mine," murmured Sybil.
"A good wife is from the Lord, my son. Cherish her as His gift."
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