_WHAT WAS WRITTEN_
"And Love lives on, and hath a power to bless,
When they who loved are hidden in the grave."
--LOWELL.
"Every one said that it was a hopeless thing to get engaged to a poor
curate," the writer went on, "and I was only a poor teacher, so the
folly was not all on one side. We were wonderfully happy in our folly,
so happy that we were full of pity for Mr. Worldly Wiseman when he
happened to cross our path with his contemptuous smile. Even Harold's
sister Ellen, with her cold blue eyes, had no power to chill us in those
days. Frigid as Ellen was, I liked her better than James, her husband,
who always pretended to be fond of me. He was a man of the 'good fellow'
type--burly, and loud of voice. But Jamie, dear little lad, bore no
resemblance to his father at all, and was only like his mother in her
best moods. Oh, poor little Jamie!
"I am not writing a novel; I am only telling of things that really came
to pass.
"We had been engaged nearly twelve months, when an old man died and left
Harold L2000. I do not expect any one to understand the gladness which
that money gave us. It is enough to say that I began to prepare my
wedding clothes, and Harold went hunting for suitable lodgings in all
his spare moments. The clothes were finished, and the lodgings found,
when a terrible thing happened.
"James had always known all about Harold's affairs. He knew that our
money was lying at the bank, waiting till a good investment was decided
upon. He pretended to have found a safe investment, and he got the money
into his own hands and absconded.
"Ellen confessed afterwards that she had known of her husband's
difficulties for many months. She feigned ignorance of his whereabouts,
but I always believed that she knew more than she told.
"As I said just now, I am not writing a novel; I am telling things in
the plainest way, and in the fewest words. Most people, I daresay, would
have survived the loss of L2000, but our hope was taken from us with the
money. Harold was not strong. He was the kind of man who needs a wife's
love and care, and the thought of our prolonged separation was more than
he could endure. He went about his parish work as usual; no one missed a
kind word because his heart ached, no good deed was left undone because
his hands were tired. And yet, O Harold, how hard it was for you to
labour in those days!
"He carried his cross manfully, although he staggered sometimes under
its weight. And he bore his great wrong with that mighty patience which
he had learnt from his Master.
"It was in the early spring that a sickness broke out among the poorest
of his flock, and Harold had but little leisure. One night he was
summoned from his bed to visit a dying man who prayed that he would
come. And that night, when the bitter east wind smote him and the rain
beat upon him, he heard the Master's call to rest.
"Do not think that I am an unhappy woman. I went down with him to the
very brink of the river--that river which has been a terror unto many,
but had no gloom for him. In those last moments I believe he knew that
we should not be parted long; I see now that he had that swift glimpse
into the future which is sometimes granted to a departing saint. How can
I be unhappy when I am so sure that he is watching for me?
* * * * *
"Ellen sent for me to come to her. She says she has got a death-blow.
James has written, telling her that she must never expect to see him
again. He has deserted her for some one else, leaving her to struggle on
here in poverty with her child. She has now confessed that she knew that
James meant to get possession of Harold's money; she was in his
confidence from the beginning.
"'We wanted to prevent your marriage with Harold if we could,' she said.
'We never liked you, Meta; but you are avenged. I sent for you to tell
you that you are avenged on me.'
"Just for a moment my heart cried out that this was as it should be.
Within me there was a struggle, brief and strong. But how could my
better nature fail to triumph, helped as I was by Harold's loving
influence? Oh, my love in heaven, I will not be conquered by evil; you
are on my side--you, and the angels of God!
* * * * *
"It is bitter weather. I sit, up at night to mend and make Jamie's
clothes, while he sleeps soundly in my bed. Dear little fellow; it does
me good to see his cheeks so rosy and round, and his curly golden head
half-buried in the pillow. 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him,' said the
Master. It might be hard to feed mine enemy, but it is a labour of love
to feed mine enemy's child.
"If I am called away, who will take care of Jamie? My landlady, Mrs.
Penn, is a good woman, but one can hardly expect her to take up the
burden of a little boy. And yet I think Jamie would be more of a
blessing than a burden. He has the sweetest ways I ever knew, and there
is a look of Harold in his blue eyes. How the wind howls to-night!
"It is a melancholy November.
* * * * *
"It was a curious thing that I should have a fainting fit in the street.
Poor Jamie would not let my hand go when they carried me into a shop.
When I came to myself I saw his dear, frightened little face looking up
at me. He is not yet four years old--and I am getting weaker and weaker.
"I will write to Harold's old college friend if I can find out his
address. It must be somewhere among Harold's papers. Arnold Wayne--ah, I
wonder if Arnold Wayne will be good to the boy?
* * * * *
"Last night I had a dream of Christmas. Harold came to me in my dream,
and said that I should hear the angels sing on Christmas day. I woke up
to find the frosty moonlight shining into the room, and Jamie, half
awake, complaining of the cold. I folded him closely in my arms, and we
both fell asleep.
* * * * *
"I am very feeble to-day. I must not try to go out of doors. There is a
little money in hand. Jamie looks at me and kisses me. Oh, Jamie!"
* * * * *
That was all. The handwriting, so firm at first, was straggling and
faint at the close. Twilight was creeping fast into the little back
room; the fire was getting low, and Elsie shivered in the chillness.
She knew now that this woman, whom she had almost envied, had passed
away from earth. They were together--Harold and Meta--in the home of
souls, where love finds its full satisfaction and rest.
Perhaps Elsie's vision of the pair was not as unreal as it might have
been supposed to be. The thought came to her, as she sat musing in the
twilight, that wherever there was a home there must surely be
homeliness. The hope of a home, denied to them on earth, was realised in
the eternal life--that life which has no need of marriage because the
spiritual union is complete without the earthly tie.
She folded up the manuscript carefully and reverently, and put it back
into the drawer of the table. But in doing this she did not put it out
of her mind. Where was Jamie now? It seemed to her, that evening, as if
the vanished hand of the writer were beckoning her onward to begin the
search for the boy.
Meta had been wronged, and had suffered, oh, how deeply! Meta had fought
the good fight and had won the victory. And to Elsie, in her loneliness,
there came a great longing to take up the love-task which Meta had been
suddenly called to resign, and care for Jamie as the dead woman had
cared for him.
But how was she to begin her search for the child? She knew him only as
Jamie. By some curious oversight Meta had not given any of the surnames
of those whose story she had written. There were but two surnames
mentioned in the manuscript, Penn and Wayne.
Mrs. Penn was a landlady; Arnold Wayne had been the college friend of
Harold.
Elsie moved quietly about her room, busy with many thoughts as she
lighted the lamp and shut out the evening sky. It was a beautiful sky,
with soft rose tints touching the grey of the gloaming, and a star
gleamed faintly above the tall spire. She gave a wistful look at that
star before she drew down the window-blind.