Mr. Wylder could not well object to sir Richard Lestrange on the ground
that his daughter had loved him before she or her father knew his
position the same he was coveting for her; and within two months they
were married. Lady Ann was invited but did not go to the wedding;
Arthur, Theodora, and Victoria did; Percy was not invited.
Neither bride nor bridegroom seeing any sense in setting out on a
journey the moment they were free to be at home together, they went
straight from the church to Mortgrange.
When they entered the hall which had so moved Richard's admiration the
first time he saw it, he stood for a moment lost in thought. When he
came to himself, Barbara had left him; but ere he had time to wonder,
such a burst of organ music filled the place as might have welcomed
one that had overcome the world. He stood entranced for a minute, then
hastened to the gallery, where he found Barbara at the instrument.
“What!” he cried in astonishment; “you, Barbara! you play like that!”
“I wanted to be worth something to you, Richard.”
“Oh Barbara, you are a queen at giving! I was well named, for you were
coming! I _am_ Richard indeed!--oh, so rich!”
In the evening they went out into the park. The moon was rising. The
sunlight was not quite gone. Her light mingled with the light that gave
it her. “Do you know that lovely passage in the Book of Baruch?” asked
Richard.
“What book is that?” returned Barbara. “It can't be in the Bible,
surely?”
“It is in the Apocrypha--which is to me very much in the Bible! I think
I can repeat it. I haven't a good memory, but some things stick fast.”
But in the process of recalling it, Richard's thoughts wandered, and
Baruch was forgotten.
“This dying of Apollo in the arms of Luna,” he said, “this melting
of the radiant god into his own pale shadow, always reminds me of the
poverty-stricken, wasted and sad, yet lovely Elysium of the pagans: so
little consolation did they gather from the thought of it, that they
longed to lay their bodies, not in the deep, cool, far-off shadow of
grove or cave, but by the ringing roadside, where live feet, in two
meeting, mingling, parting tides, ever came and went; where chariots
rushed past in hot haste, or moved stately by in jubilant procession;
where at night lonely forms would steal through the city of the silent,
with but the moon to see them go, bent on ghastly conference with witch
or enchanter; and--”
“Where _are_ you going, Richard? Please take me with you. I feel as if I
were lost in a wood!”
“What I meant to say,” replied Richard, with a little laugh, “was--how
different the moonlit shadow-land of those people from the sunny realm
of the radiant Christ! Jesus rose again because he was true, and death
had no part in him. This world's day is but the moonlight of his world.
The shadow-man, who knows neither whence he came nor whither he is
going, calls the upper world the house of the dead, being himself a
ghost that wanders in its caves, and knows neither the blowing of its
wind, the dashing of its waters, the shining of its sun, nor the glad
laughter of its inhabitants.”
They wandered along, now talking, now silent, their two hearts lying
together in a great peace.
The moon kept rising and brightening, slowly victorious over the pallid
light of the dead sun; till at last she lifted herself out of the
vaporous horizon-sea, ascended over the tree-tops, and went walking
through the unobstructed sky, mistress of the air, queen of the heavens,
lady of the eyes of men. Yet was she lady only because she beheld her
lord. She saw the light of her light, and told what she saw of him.
“When the soul of man sees God, it shines!” said Richard. They reached
at length the spot where first they met in the moonlight. With one heart
they stopped and turned, and looked each in the other's moonlit eyes.
Barbara spoke first.
“Now,” she said, “tell me what Baruch says.”
“Ah, yes, Baruch! He was the prophet Jeremiah's friend and amanuensis.
It was the moon made me think of him. I believe I can give you the
passage word for word, as it stands in the English Bible.
“'But he that knoweth all things knoweth her,'--that is, Wisdom--'and
hath found her out with his understanding: he that prepared the earth
for evermore hath filled it with four-footed beasts: he that sendeth
forth light, and it goeth, calleth it again, and it obeyeth him with
fear. The stars shined in their watches, and rejoiced: when he calleth
them, they say, Here we be; and so with cheerfulness they showed light
unto him that made them. This is our God, and there shall none other be
accounted of in comparison of him.'”
“That is beautiful!” cried Barbara. “'They said, Here we be! And
so--'--What is it?”
“'And so with cheerfulness they showed light unto him that made them.'”
“I will read every word of Baruch!” said Barbara. “Is there much of
him?”
“No; very little.”
A silence followed. Then again Barbara spoke, and she clung a little
closer to her husband.
“I want to tell you something that came to me one night when we were in
London,” she said. “It was a miserable time that--before I found you up
in the orchestra there! and then hell became purgatory, for there was
hope in it. I saw so many miserable things! I seemed always to come
upon the miserable things. It was as if my eyes were made only to see
miserable things--bad things and suffering everywhere. The terrible city
was full of them. I longed to help, but had to wait for you to set me
free. You had gone from my knowledge, and I was very sad, seeing nothing
around me but a waste of dreariness. I kept asking God to give me
patience, and not let me fancy myself alone. But the days were dismal,
and the balls and dinners frightful. I seemed in a world without air.
The girls were so silly, the men so inane, and the things they said so
mawkish and colourless! Their compliments sickened me so, that I was
just hungry to hide myself. But at last came what I want to tell you.
“One morning, after what seemed a long night's dreamless sleep, I awoke;
but it was much too early to rise; so I lay thinking--or more truly,
I hope, being thought into, as Mr. Wingfold says. Many of the most
beautiful things I had read, scenes of our Lord's life on earth, and
thoughts of the Father, came and went. I had no desire to sleep again,
or any feeling of drowsiness; but in the midst of fully conscious
thought, found myself in some other place, of which I only knew that
there was firm ground under my feet, and a soft white radiance of light
about me. The remembrance came to me afterwards, of branches of trees
spreading high overhead, through which I saw the sky: but at the time I
seemed not to take notice of what was around me. I was leaning against a
form tall and grand, clothed from the shoulders to the ground in a
black robe, full, and soft, and fine. It lay in thickly gathered
folds, touched to whiteness in the radiant light, all along the arms
encircling, without at first touching me.
“With sweet content my eyes went in and out of those manifold radiant
lines, feeling, though they were but parts of his dress, yet they were
of himself; for I knew the form to be that of the heavenly Father,
but felt no trembling fear, no sense of painful awe--only a deep, deep
worshipping, an unutterable love and confidence. 'Oh Father!' I said,
not aloud, but low into the folds of his garment. Scarcely had I
breathed the words, when 'My child!' came whispered, and I knew his head
was bent toward me, and I felt his arms close round my shoulders, and
the folds of his garment enwrap me, and with a soft sweep, fall behind
me to the ground. Delight held me still for a while, and then I looked
up to seek his face; but I could not see past his breast. His shoulders
rose far above my upreaching hands. I clasped them together, and face
and hands rested near his heart, for my head came not much above his
waist.
“And now came the most wonderful part of my dream. As I thus rested
against his heart, _I seemed to see into it_; and mine was filled with
loving wonder, and an utterly blessed feeling of home, to the very core.
I was _at home_--with my Father! I looked, as it seemed, into a space
illimitable and fathomless, and yet a warm light as from a hearth-fire
shone and played in ruddy glow, as upon confining walls. And I saw,
there gathered, all human hearts. I saw them--yet I saw no forms; they
_were_ there--and yet they _would be_ there. To my waking reason, the
words sound like nonsense, and perplex me; but the thing did not perplex
me at all. With light beyond that of faith, for it was of absolute
certainty, clear as bodily vision, but of a different nature, I saw
them. But this part of my dream, the most lovely of all, I can find no
words to describe; nor can I even recall to my own mind the half of what
I felt. I only know that something was given me then, some spiritual
apprehension, to be again withdrawn, but to be given to us all, I
believe, some day, out of his infinite love, and withdrawn no more.
Every heart that had ever ached, or longed, or wandered, I knew was
there, folded warm and soft, safe and glad. And it seemed in my dream
that to know this was the crown of all my bliss--yes, even more than
to be myself in my Father's arms. Awake, the thought of multitude had
always oppressed my mind; it did not then. From the comfort and joy it
gave me to see them there, I seemed then first to know how my own heart
had ached for them.
“Then tears began to run from my eyes--but easily, with no pain of the
world in them. They flowed like a gentle stream--_into the heart of
God_, whose depths were open to my gaze. The blessedness of those tears
was beyond words. It was all true then! That heart was our home!
“Then I felt that I was being gently, oh, so gently, put away. The folds
of his robe which I held in my hands, were being slowly drawn from them;
and the gladness of my weeping changed to longing entreaty. 'Oh Father!
Father!' I cried; but I saw only his grand gracious form, all blurred
and indistinct through the veil of my blinding tears, slowly receding,
slowly fading--and I awoke.
“My tears were flowing now with the old earth-pain in them, with keenest
disappointment and longing. _To have been there and to have come back_,
was the misery. But it did not last long. The glad thought awoke that I
_had_ the dream--a precious thing never to be lost while memory
lasted; a thing which nothing but its realization could ever equal in
preciousness. I rose glad and strong, to serve with newer love, with
quicker hand and readier foot, the hearts around me.”