"BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS."
IT was no false alarm. Walter Wilson was dying.
Day and night, almost without any intervals of rest, the penitent
Elizabeth watched by the bedside of her brother.
Mrs. Matthew did not make many objections to this. Of course she had
been hastily summoned to High Beech when it was found that Walter could
not be conveyed home, and she had obeyed the call. She was concerned,
too, when told that her son could not possibly rally beyond the few
hours, or days at most, predicted by his medical attendant. She was not
without natural affection, though this divine gift had been dulled and
dimmed by many sordid cares, as we have seen. Still, when her first
exclamations of grief had been uttered, she withdrew again into her
ordinary self. She wasn't used to nursing, she said; and she didn't
like to see anybody die. She didn't think she could stand it. Besides,
she was getting old and feeble, and must have her proper night's rest,
or where would the house-work go to?
As to getting a regular nurse for Walter, she went on, she didn't know
what to say, she was sure. Regular nurses cost a deal of money, and
they wanted a deal to eat and drink too, and that of the best. And
where was that to come from? All she knew was that she hadn't seen the
colour of Walter's money since he had come down upon them; and it was
her opinion, as well as Matthew's, that he had come home from Australia
pretty near as poor as a church mouse; and at their years (hers and
Matthew's) it wasn't to be expected that they could maintain a grown-up
son, and pay for his being nursed as well; to say nothing about burying
him when he was dead, supposing he should die, as the doctor said.
So, if Elizabeth liked to tend him as he lay there, perhaps it was
the best thing to do; and she (Mrs. Matthew) must get through the
house-work as best she could without her; and that was hard lines
enough. All this, and much more, the old lady enunciated in a sorrowful
tone of injured innocence, or something like it.
Matthew Wilson was even less moved by the report of his eldest son's
condition. But there is no need to dwell upon this painful side
of human nature. It is enough to say again, that where grasping
covetousness and close-fisted penuriousness get possession of a human
soul, all natural affections become in time so blunted as to leave the
unhappy entertainer like one "past feeling, twice dead, and plucked up
by the roots." ¹
¹ The narrator writes cautiously and guardedly here, and the picture
he has sketched is but a faint copy of more than one original.
If the parents of the dying man were thus indifferent to the claims
of natural affection, it is no great wonder that Mrs. George Wilson
fretted exceedingly at the trouble to which she had unexpectedly been
put by the perverseness of her husband's brother, in having brought
himself to death's door in the place and manner described. Why should
she be having the worry of a dying man in her house? she wanted to
know. One way and another she had plenty of plague on her hands without
that additional grievance. She said this, in other words, to Elizabeth,
who made no reply, but with strong restraint turned to her brother's
side to receive comfort from his dying words.
For Walter had regained consciousness, as we have seen; and, in the
intervals of such distressing paroxysms of weakness and painful
labouring for breath as were almost equally distressing to witness and
to bear, he was able to point his sister to the only true hope and
resting-place of the weary and heavy-laden.
During the two or three or more days which intervened between the
departure of John Tincroft and his return, the only alleviation, from
the outer world, of Elizabeth's trouble, and almost the only help she
obtained in her anxious watching, was in the sympathy of Tom Grigson.
It was not much that this active man of business knew of, and it was
not much, if the truth be known, that he cared for Walter Wilson; but
he cared a good deal for his friend John Tincroft, and he manifested
his love for John by caring for John's friends.
And if I were disposed to write a sermon on the diffusiveness of
charity, I might find an illustration here—showing how the influence
extends from heart to heart, till it embraces a whole circle of
rightly-constituted minds in one bond of brotherhood. But I am not a
preacher, and shall only advert to the results of this sympathetic,
mysterious linking together of one human being with another. It came to
pass, then, that Tom Grigson found himself, day after day, attracted
to High Beech, and to the bedside of Walter Wilson, bringing with him
such creature comforts as the ample resources of the Manor House could
furnish, both for the necessities of the patient and the strengthening
sustenance of the nurse.
The third day from the departure of John Tincroft brought down the
London lawyer to the bedside of his client, and to the consultation
that followed were admitted the squire from the Manor House and his
brother. What passed in that solemn conclave was a profound secret to
all around, but it terminated in Mr. Fawley (the lawyer, and an old
friend of ours in a former history ¹) being invited to stay at the
Manor House, instead of trusting to the uncertain hospitalities of the
White Hart, which invitation was frankly accepted.
¹ See "George Burley's Experiences of Life."
The news that a gentleman from London had been to see Walter Wilson,
and that he was staying at the Manor House, was duly conveyed to Low
Beech Farm; but the intelligence excited only the suspicion of old
Matthew, who was partially acquainted with the worst side of human
nature, and knew what was what, as he said.
"Somebody that Walter owes money to, I'll be bound," said he; "and
he'll be coming to me to get it out of me if he can."
Under this uneasy apprehension and distrust, Matthew Wilson kept away
from High Beech, where his son lay a dying.
Meanwhile, the unselfish John Tincroft and his charge were travelling
as swiftly as the various modes of conveyance they adopted admitted;
and on the evening of the fourth day from John's departure on his
sorrowful errand, they drove up to High Beech Farm. It was some relief
to learn from Mrs. George, on arriving there, that Walter still lived,
and, though slowly sinking, was sensible and able to converse at
intervals with those around him.
After brief preparation, the agitated and heart-stricken daughter
was admitted to her father's chamber, and the door was shut upon the
two. We shall not intrude, nor attempt to describe the interview that
followed. There are scenes and circumstances in the history of our
lives almost too sacred and solemn to be introduced, with whatever
effect, into a story such as this. And the almost final parting of
a dying father from, and his last words to, a loving child must be
reckoned among these scenes.
We descend, then, to the parlour below—so well-known to John Tincroft
in the earlier days of our history, and which has been, not over
graciously, yielded by Mrs. George Wilson to her husband's kinsfolk
in these days of trouble. Here were seated John and Sarah, not yet
disencumbered of their travelling attire, and not having dismissed
their hired chaise, which was still outside awaiting further
orders. I have little doubt that, as they sat there, some odd and
(notwithstanding the present grave and sorrowful occasion) rather
comically bewildering remembrances stole in upon them both, causing
them to look askance, first of all, at the old-fashioned worm-eaten
chairs on which they rested, and then shyly and slyly at each other,
whereupon Sarah blushed a little, and John, not to confuse his dear
wife, made believe not to notice it, but turned away his eyes and
looked out of the window instead. And, then they were recalled to a
sense of the trouble that had brought them to High Beech, by hearing
the voice of Elizabeth as she descended the stairs.
Sarah and Elizabeth had never seen each other since the day of Sarah's
marriage, more than twenty years before; and then their parting was of
the coolest and most indifferent sort. And Mrs. Tincroft, on her way
to her old home, from the moment of getting into the Trotbury coach,
had been unceasingly pondering in her dear little mind how ever she
should accomplish a meeting with her cousin. She had no enmity against
Elizabeth. Why should she have? To be sure, she had received unkindness
at her cousin's hands; but that was long ago, and, besides, it had all
turned out for the best. What would be the good, then, of bearing in
mind those old passages of arms?
To tell the truth, too, Sarah, weak-minded as no doubt she was, was
intrinsically good-natured and loving; and it would have been strange
if her twenty years and more of companionship with gall-less John
Tincroft had not had a beneficial effect upon her. But, for all that,
she wasn't quite sure whether a certain show of dignity in remembrance
of past injustice and injury wouldn't be the proper thing to put on in
the anticipated meeting. Of course, after this she would show herself
very forgiving and very affectionate towards her former persecutor—and
so on, and so on.
I have just come across a passage in my desultory reading, which may
give me a lift in this part of my story. "The payments and debts and
returns of affection," says the writer, "are at all times hard to
reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone;
others deal out their affections at interest; others, again, take
everything, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch, and
go then way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar."
Well, these payments and debts and returns are no doubt hard to reckon.
When they had been girls together, Elizabeth and Sarah had loved one
another as cousins. Then had come the fatal blight, brought on by Mark
Wilson's vice of intemperance and the kindred one of recklessness: and
their whole treasury of love had been poisoned by unkindness on one
side and angry resentment on the other. And now, how were they to meet?
John Tincroft had his doubts and anxious thoughts about this, I think;
for he sat uneasily watching and waiting for the opening of the door,
glancing every now and then at his little wife's perturbed and flushed
countenance. And then, presently, the door handle was moved, the latch
was gently lifted, and the door was slowly opened. John started from
his seat, sprang hastily forward; and before the cousins had time to
make up their minds what to say to one another at first starting, he
had, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, as he was and ever had
been, despite his awkward shyness, led the homely, hard-working, and
penitent Elizabeth across the room to where his wife was now standing,
like a timid, half-frightened fawn, and brought into contact the hands
which had so long been strangers to each other's grasp. And then
came a little startled cry; and Sarah threw her disengaged arm round
Elizabeth's neck, and in another moment the cousins were in close
embrace, as though they had never been separated in affection.
"How could I ever behave to you as I did?" sobbed Elizabeth.
And after this, and when they had settled down, John left the cousins
by themselves, under the pretence of looking after the chaise and its
driver, for he could see that he had done all that was needed.
"He is so good—so good to me, and to everybody!" cried Sarah, as the
door was shut upon Elizabeth and herself: and then the payments and
debts and returns of affection, which are so hard to reckon, welled up
from both their softened hearts; and there was no more said, on either
side, about the past unhappy alienation.
An hour later, and when dear Helen's interview with her father was
over, and John and Sarah had stood for a little while by Walter's
bedside, it was agreed that Helen—who would not leave her father, she
said—should remain under the protection of Aunt Elizabeth, while John
and Sarah went to the Manor House, where, as a matter of course, they
were expected. And the power of kindness so wrought even upon the hard
and not very impressible nature of Mrs. George Wilson, that she felt
herself softening under it to the heart-stricken Helen, and agreed
that, as long as was needed, she should share with Elizabeth the little
bedchamber which for the last few days she had nominally occupied while
nursing her brother.
It was not long needed. On the day week from Walter's fainting fit in
the holly arbour, he gently sank into that slumber from which there is
no awakening. One hand, damp with the dews of death, was laid on the
head of his kneeling, weeping daughter, and the other feebly clasped
those of his first love and her husband.
And then, as twilight deepened, a solemn silence fell upon all
assembled there. Walter was dead.
Later that evening, the last offices to the poor mortal and corruptible
body having been performed, came the village carpenter; and all that
night, till early morning, in the stillness of the village, was heard
from the dimly-lighted-up carpenter's shop, the sharp sound of saw, and
hammer, and nails on stout elm boards, which told of another claimant
for a resting-place in God's Acre.
On the following evening, the laden coffin was quietly, and without
much observation, conveyed from High Beech to the old farmhouse in the
valley, and there, in the chamber where he had first drawn breath, was
deposited, until the day to be appointed for the funeral, all that was
left of the first-born of old Matthew Wilson.
Meanwhile Helen, submitting herself to the loving care and sympathy
of her friend and protectress, Mrs. Tincroft, had been received at
the Manor House with genuine kindness and all delicate attentions by
Richard Grigson and his motherly housekeeper.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]