PEACE!
“Victory all along the lines!”
This was the triumphant report made from a thousand pulpits on the
Sunday following the elections, and the _Te Deum_ was sung in the
churches with increased fervour.
“So political!” said the objectors; but since politics had now become a
part of Christianity, why not?
There was great rejoicing at Scourby and Darentdale and its
neighbourhood, for Mr. Whitwell was duly elected by a majority of
undreamed of magnitude.
And if they could have understood it, there would have been still
greater gladness in the hearts of a million of the children of the
nation, for the first duty to which the members of the new Parliament
were pledged to address themselves was the amelioration of their
condition. Henceforth, every child’s life was to be considered sacred,
and of priceless value to the State. There were to be no more little
lives sacrificed to the passion of brutal men and women, for it was at
last recognised that every child born in England had a soul, had its
rights, its powers also, and possibilities; and if there were parents
who did not desire to own it and care for it, the country did. How it
was to be paid for, and who was to pay—whether it was to be housed, fed,
and trained by the State, which would recoup itself by certain services
rendered in the future; or whether unwilling parents should be compelled
to work for their own children; also, whether it would be more easy to
secure for the child the love and motherly ministrations which are
absolutely essential to its well-being in the home of its parents—or in
other homes, from parently, but childless, people, were details for the
Government to settle. “It is your duty to solve these and other problems
which are waiting,” said the people to their representatives. “It is our
will that every abuse which is a national disgrace shall be swept away;
and if you have not the ability to do it, or do not care to take the
necessary trouble, we have made a mistake in our choice, and shall call
upon you to vacate the seats which others can more worthily fill.”
So it was perfectly understood that there were to be no more days weakly
and wickedly wasted by the stupid talk of obstructives, many of whom had
gone to Westminster hitherto for the expressed purpose of preventing the
opposite party from doing anything, since they were not strong enough to
do anything themselves. It had been prophesied years before that when
the Church “meant business” there would be change in many things, and
the Church meant business now, and was determined that henceforth in
England the Houses of Legislature should be composed of real men, with
not one idiot among them. And it will be readily understood that there
were, therefore, great rejoicings among all men and women who were the
true patriots of the land.
But while these changes, for which, during many years, a silent
preparation had been going on, began to be accomplished, there were the
usual joys and sorrows in the domestic lives of the people.
Henry Harris recorded his vote early, as did also Dr. Stapleton, and
then they both went away to London, the former to consult the greatest
physician of the day, and the latter to accompany him, and give him such
support as friendship could if he should need it.
Persons in search of the dramatic elements of our life in its reality
would scarcely find them more developed than in the house of an eminent
doctor. In the waiting-room, where patients gather and await their turn,
what striking contrasts and vivid harmonies there are! Here is an
unloved wife, who yet desperately clings to the life that has so little
to offer here; and there is one so deeply loved that her husband would
part with his all to buy one little year longer which they might spend
together. Here is a man who might drop out of Society at once and never
be missed; and there is another, of whom it is said in the town of his
residence that he cannot possibly be spared, for there is no one, and
even no dozen of men, who could fill his place. Yonder is one for whom
his mother prays: “Oh, take him that he may do no more evil!” And here
another for whom ten thousand people pray, “Oh, spare him that he may
yet further bless us and glorify Thee!” And what breathless suspense
there is in the consulting-room of the great man! No prisoner at the bar
waits for the verdict of the jury with more consuming anxiety than does
the innocent man, whose heart is full of his wife and children, as the
perspiration stands in great drops on his forehead, while the sentence
of hope or of doom is pronounced by the oracle. He may be wrong, and
often is, this man whose fiat has such terrible power; but if he has a
heart it must often know the acutest pangs of sympathy.
Mr. Harris was pale but calm when Dr. Stapleton introduced him. Really,
he did not share his friend’s fears. It was true that he had suffered
much, but not enough to indicate any disease that might prove fatal. Of
that he felt sure, or thought he did; but his eyes had read the faces of
the men and women who had waited as he had, and his feelings had been
greatly touched. It was more of them than of himself he thought while he
answered the physician’s questions and submitted to his examination. He
was surprised when the Doctor at last said, “If you can spare the time
to wait I should like to call a friend who understands these cases even
better than I.”
“Certainly I can wait,” replied Harris; “I have no other errand in
London but this.”
“Then I will see if he can be summoned,” said the Doctor, as he went
towards his telephone.
“You are not quite sure whether there is anything the matter with me?”
asked Harris.
“Perfectly sure,” was the reply; “but there may be something that can be
done.”
The other doctor arrived, and Harris was not kept long in suspense. “I
am sorry to tell you that yours is a hopeless case.” It was put bluntly,
and yet the tones of the man’s voice were as gentle as he could make
them.
“There is no cure for me?”
“I am afraid none; at least, we do not know of any.”
Harris’s face became white to the lips, and he did not speak for a few
seconds. Presently he said, “Very well. Other men have had to bear pain
for many years; what they have done I must do. I suppose it will be
years?”
“Do you positively wish me to tell you?”
“Most certainly; the exact truth, as far as you know it.”
“I am afraid it will not even be months.”
The doctor considerately left his patient for a few minutes after he had
thus pronounced sentence upon him. Stapleton was waiting anxiously. He
was almost certain there was no hope, and yet it was a keen
disappointment to him when he found his worst fears confirmed.
“He will bear it like a man,” he said, “for there are few better and
braver men in the world than Harris. I am truly sorry. I shall lose a
friend whom I greatly respect. You can have no idea what a fine fellow
he is!”
“Has he a wife and children?”
“No; he has a granddaughter, or a ward, I do not know which—a young lady
who loves and honours him; but all the village in which he lives will
mourn him.”
“The worst of it is the horrible suffering he must bear.”
“Ah, yes! It is terrible to think of what it must be before release
comes. How long will it be?”
“Three or four weeks probably, not more, though he is a strong man, and
I should judge that he has not played fast and loose with his
constitution.”
When Stapleton joined his friend he was met with the kind smile which
always had a wonderful tenderness and sweetness in it, quite
characteristic of the man. It almost brought tears to Stapleton’s eyes
now, and he silently grasped the hand that was quite firm, and whose
clasp was as true as friendship itself. “It is all right, Stapleton,” he
said. “Do not grieve for me; and let us get home as soon as we can.”
The short railway ride between London and Darentdale was through a
pretty well-wooded country. It had never appeared so beautiful as now to
the eyes that would soon be closed to it all. The man had loved Nature
in all her moods, and she seemed to put on her most beautiful garments
in which to receive the farewells of her friend. His eyes swam with
tears several times as they looked out at the cool woodland ways, the
green meadows, and the bright blue skies. When the train stopped at one
of the village stations a lark was pouring down a shower of song upon
them. Harris was glad it was so happy, but the whispering leaves seemed
to have more sympathy with him. It was as if they knew that his life was
as transient as theirs, and they were sorry for him as for themselves.
“We shall probably pass away together,” said his thought. “They will
fall to the ground, and so shall I. But I am no leaf, to perish when my
body withers. There is a future for me. Where? I shall soon know. I am
not afraid, for God is love.”
“I suppose you would rather not talk,” said Dr. Stapleton.
“Thank you. I have much to think of. I must put my house in order, you
know, since I shall surely die,” he answered.
And then he thought of Margaret. He must make her future more sure. He
must indeed tell her everything now, and he would see Dallington first
of all. They must be married at once; there was really no reason why
they should not be; and if they were, and they both knew all, he would
have no misgivings in regard to his dear child to make his death the
harder. “Presently,” he reminded himself, “it will be too late to do; I
shall only be able to bear.”
Margaret’s heart sank with dismay when she saw him. He looked like a man
who, though habitually calm, had been forced into a conflict so bitter
that it had taken his very life from him. She threw her arms around him,
and drew him to a chair, and put his head upon her breast, and kissed
him with the fervour and tenderness of a daughter. He had not told her
that he was ill; but she had feared, and now she knew.
“Dear, darling, how tired you are!” she said. “I shall fetch a sponge
and bathe your face, and you must have some tea at once. Rest a little
first.”
He did not speak, but lifted his hand caressingly to her face, and felt
that, but for distressing her, he must have sobbed.
After partaking of some refreshment, however, he revived, and they both
tried to be cheerful.
“How have you got on without me to-day?” he asked. “Has there been a
crowd of customers? Have you sold any more of the poets?”
“At one time the shop was very full,” she answered. “There were three
people in it together, and all talking at once.”
“How did you manage without assistance? Did you call Ann to help you?”
“I could not, for Ann was in the midst of one of her most thrilling
stories, which she was recounting to the baker, and I knew that genius
does not like to be interrupted. But I was as adroit as I could be, and
my customers were patient; so we managed fairly. And I have such news
for you—James Peters is engaged.”
“Really? Well, he’s a nice boy, and deserves a good wife. Who is it that
he has chosen?”
“Guess!”
“Nancy Jones? Emma Swift? Louisa Mellars? No? I give it up.”
“I think it is very ungallant of you not to guess me. Why should it not
be me? I am tall enough and young enough and all the rest enough for
him, I hope.”
“He knows better than to choose you, Madge. Tell me, now—Jennie Swain?
Well, I never!”
“But so it is; Jennie has the prize, and a dozen of us have nothing but
the power and privilege of tearing our hair if we please.”
“You respect your hair, Madge, far too highly to tear it.”
So they talked on, while a great burden of fear was on Margaret’s heart,
and it seemed to Harris that the shadowy man with the scythe stood
behind his chair.
There was presently a pause in the conversation; and afterward Harris
resolved to prepare Margaret a little for what was coming.
“What do you think took me to London this morning, Madge?” he asked.
“The train, dear.”
“How clever a guesser _you_ are! And the train was punctual. I went to
see the great Doctor Fulton.”
“I am glad you did, for Dr. Stapleton is young, and has had
comparatively little experience. Have you brought home some medicine? It
must be time for you to take it.”
“It is no use to take the medicine. He says that nothing can cure me.”
“Oh, Graf! Graf! You must not say such a thing as that to me.”
“But you must know it, my darling, some time, and soon, for it is not
going to be long; and if you love me you will be glad of that, for the
pain of the disease which I have is terrible to bear, and it would be
hard for you to see me suffer.”
“Oh, my dear, it cannot be! There is surely some other doctor who can do
something. What becomes of all this modern science that boasts itself so
much if it cannot help one in an emergency like this?”
“It is all right, Madge, dear; a man must die some time. Of course, he
does not want to, and never would, but we all have to, you know. Life is
very short here, but it is continued somewhere—of that I am increasingly
sure.”
A great darkness came over Margaret. What could she do if this best
friend of hers were to be taken now, when it seemed he could the least
be spared?
“I will tell you all you ought to know, dear, about yourself, and give
you the keys so that you may find the money you will need, and——”
A faintness came over him, and he gasped for breath.
“Oh, not now,” cried Margaret. “Do not distress yourself. I will not
hear anything to-night.”
“To-morrow, then.”
“Yes, to-morrow, or next week, or any time. It does not matter about
me.”
“Margaret, sing to me that hymn of Faber’s—
“I worship Thee, sweet Will of God,
And all Thy ways adore,
It will do us both good just now; if we sing the words we shall be able
to feel the sentiment.”
But Margaret was on her knees by his side, sobbing out her grief. She
soon was ashamed of herself, however. She must bear up for his sake, who
had so much more to bear.
“I cannot sing, dear,” she said; “but we will each have the book open
before us, and I will play it through.”
She did so, and then he asked her to read to him.
“The prayer of Jesus for His disciples, Margaret, and His words to
them—they are for you and for me, dear, as much as for any one else.”
“Surely.”
And Margaret read the wonderful words to which we all turn, quite
naturally, in the supreme moments of our lives, and which comfort us as
nothing else can do when death or trouble has forced itself into our
houses and will not be turned out. Margaret knew them by heart, and so
did Henry Harris, and yet they seemed to have new power and grace on
that evening, for the face of Harris was lighted with joy as he
listened.
“‘Never man spake like this Man,’” he said. “His Sermon on the Mount is
for everyday life, and this, His last address, is for the evening, when
the working day is over and rest is near. I have not done all that I
might have done; but I am really tired, and shall be as glad of my rest
as if I had deserved it. I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for
Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety. Margaret, what a
marvellous conqueror of men is this Jesus Christ!”
“Ah, yes!” said Margaret, with glowing eyes; “and all the world must
surely call Him Lord some day.”
“Someday. Yes. I wonder which day it will be, Margaret. I think we could
sing now, dear. Let it be, ‘Jesu, lover of my soul.’”
They sang it together—there is no hymn like it for such a time. Harris
had a good bass voice and Margaret a sweet mezzo-soprano; and the hymn
rose softly but melodiously to heaven. It is a fine prayer, and at the
same time a grand ascription of praise. When it was ended, Harris
repeated the collect, “Lighten our darkness,” and Margaret the Lord’s.
Prayer, and both hearts were calmed.
“It is time you were in bed, dear,” Margaret said; “you are so tired.”
“Yes, I think I shall sleep well to-night. Hark! the boys in the street
are crying the state of the poll! See if Whitwell is all right, dear.”
“A magnificent majority,” said Margaret, holding the paper towards him.
“Hurrah! I am very glad! The old bad times are past. The new aristocracy
of character takes its proper place. The best men, the true kings, whom
God will crown, will be henceforth the rulers of men. I hope you will
live long to enjoy it all, Margaret. As for me I shall be satisfied
when——”
He fell back, and Margaret thought he had fainted. She called Ann
Johnson to open all the doors, while she tried to restore him.
John Dallington and Dr. Stapleton at that moment came to bring the news
of the election, and, seeing the door open, entered.
“He is faint!” cried Margaret, in agony.
But Dr. Stapleton said, gently, “It is more than faintness. It is
perfect peace.”