LIFE AND DEATH.
It was early in November when Apley Hall was ready for their return,
after seven years' absence. George Martin, with his wife and child,
had already taken possession of the Rectory, which stood beside the
church, just beyond the boundary of the park, and at a short distance
from the Hall. Both houses were built of stone, and were fine
specimens of Elizabethan architecture. The walls were toned down to a
soft, low gray, on which the golden and silvery lichen lay in
harmonious coloring. Here and there some finely trained ivy climbed to
the roof, or twined about the mullioned windows. The park was richly
wooded, chiefly with beech trees, which at the moment of their return
were almost as thick in foliage as during the summer, but with every
shade of brown and yellow on their leaves. On one side of the Hall
there stretched a long pool, nearly large enough to be called a lake,
where water lilies grew in profusion; and in whose tranquil surface the
bronzed beech trees were clearly reflected. Margaret breathed a sigh
of perfect contentment as she found herself once more at home; and her
father lifted up his feeble head and smiled sadly as he gave her a
welcome back to it.
The tenantry had wished to give them a noisy "welcome home," but this
Sidney had decisively negatived, both on Colonel Cleveland's account
and Margaret's. For in a few weeks after their return a son and heir
was born. The sight of the child seemed to give new life to Colonel
Cleveland, and the following day he insisted on being carried on his
invalid couch into Margaret's room, to see how well she was for himself.
"My darling!" he said, in a loud, excited voice, "I saw you in the
first hour of your existence, and you have been my treasure ever since;
and this little lad will be your treasure."
"Yes," she answered, "I never thought there was such happiness as this.
I wish every woman in the world were as happy as I am."
"Take me away," he said suddenly, in a low voice, to those who had
carried him to his daughter's side, "I am dying."
We come here upon the most singular part of Margaret's inward life; the
most difficult to narrate; the least likely to be understood.
For the last twenty-four hours she had been passing through a series of
the most agitating emotions, which penetrated the deepest recesses of
her nature. The birth of her child had touched the very spring and
fountain of love and joy. There was an overwhelming sense of rapture
to her in the consciousness of being a mother, of feeling the helpless,
breathing, moving baby lying in her arms. There was a blending of
pitifullness and tenderness, and an exquisite sense of ownership, in
her feelings toward the little creature, such as had never entered into
her heart to dream of. To die for this child would be nothing; she
felt she could endure long ages of deepest sorrow if it could bring him
any good in the end. Her own personality was gone; it had entered into
her child. Henceforth it seemed as if she would live and breathe in
him; and his life would be far nearer and dearer to her than her own.
Upon this extraordinary exaltation and happiness there came the sudden
shock of her father's death. She recollected too keenly the sense of
loss and separation that had fallen upon her when her mother died; when
all the old, beloved, familiar duties were ended forever; the voice
silent, the eyes closed. It was so with her father; he was gone from
all the conditions of life known to her. They told her he was dead.
A curtain fell, thick and impenetrable, between her and the outer
world. Her senses no longer brought information of what was going on
about her to her brain; but her brain did not feel bewildered, or her
memory failing. Rather both were preternaturally clear and active.
Her own life, and the lives of others as far as they had been in
contact with hers, lay before her in strange distinctness; and her
judgment, held till now in abeyance, was acting keenly and quickly,
discriminating and condemning or approving, as scene after scene passed
rapidly in review. The child's little life of twenty-four hours was
clear to her; and all her exquisite joy in having given birth to a son.
Then it seemed to her--but with what words to describe it Margaret
could never tell--that she entered into a light, a glory, a radiance
far beyond the brightest sun; and felt an embrace in which her soul
lay, as her little child had lain upon her bosom; and there was a throb
through all her being, as if she felt the beating of God's heart toward
her, and it was of an infinite pitifulness and tenderness and sense of
ownership in her, as she had felt toward her newborn babe. And she
knew that she was born into another world; and that this was the first
moment of life in the knowledge of the infinite love of God. She was
immeasurably dearer to him than her earth-born son was to her; and her
joy over him was but the faintest symbol of God's eternal joy over her.
"Can this be death?" she cried aloud, joyously and wonderingly; and
Sidney, kneeling beside her, felt that the sting of death was in his
own soul.
But Margaret did not know that she had spoken. The trance, if it was a
trance, continued. And now the rapture that possessed her soul changed
a little; neither failing nor chilling, but giving her strength to
remember things that were full of sorrow. She felt herself present at
the crucifixion of our Lord. She made her way through the crowd to the
very foot of the Cross, and stood leaning against it, her uplifted
hands just touching the chilled and bleeding feet. She shivered and
wept as she touched them. Him she could not see; but all about her
were the faces of those who were crucifying Him; malignant, curious,
stupid, careless, and afar off a few mournful ones. All whom she had
ever known were there; and Sidney stood among the most bitter enemies
of our Lord. Her heart felt breaking with its burden of grief and
anguish, and she was saying to herself, "Was there ever sorrow like
this sorrow?" when, suddenly, like a flash of lightning, yet as softly
as the dawn of the morning, there came upon her the conviction that He
loved every one of this innumerable crowd with the same love that she
had just felt was the love of God for her. He was their brother, their
Saviour. Deeper and stronger than pain and anguish, infinitely deeper
and stronger was His love; and this love was the foundation of that joy
which no man, however great a sinner, could take from him.
But Margaret could never tell all she then knew and felt; for it seemed
to grow dim as she returned to earth. There were no words by which she
could utter it, only tears and sobs of surpassing gladness, which no
one could understand. And it was but once or twice in her lifetime
that she tried to tell it; and then it was to those who were afraid of
dying. She came back at last to this life, as weak and helpless as the
child she had just borne. Her eyes could hardly bear the light, and
the faintest sounds seemed loud and jarring to her. But she regained
her former strength day by day, and she was content to take up her old
life. Only when they spoke cautiously and mournfully to her again of
her father's death a smile came across her thin, white face.
"You do not know what it is," she said, and they thought she was
delirious again.