Mark Hurdlestone Part 28

What had he to encourage hope, or give him strength to combat with the ills that beset him on every side? Homeless and friendless, he thought, like Clary, that death would be most welcome, and sinking upon his knees, he prayed long and fervently for strength to bear with manly fort.i.tude the sorrows which from his infant years had been his bitter portion.

Who ever sought counsel of G.o.d in vain? An answer of peace was given to his prayers. "Endure thou unto the end, and I will give thee a crown of life." He rose from his knees, and felt that all was right; that his present trials were awarded to him in mercy; that had all things gone on smoother with him, like G.o.dfrey, he might have yielded himself up to sinful pleasures, or followed in the footsteps of his father, and bartered his eternal happiness for gold.

"This world is not our rest. Then why should I wish to pitch my tent on this side of Jordan, and overlook all the blessings of the promised land? Let me rather rejoice in tribulations, if through them I may obtain the salvation of G.o.d."

That night Anthony enjoyed a calm refres.h.i.+ng sleep. He dreamed of his mother, dreamed that he saw her in glory, that he heard her speak words of comfort to his soul, and he awoke with the rising sun, to pour out his heart in thankfulness to Him who had bestowed upon him the magnificent boon of life.

The beauty of the morning tempted him to take a stroll in the fields before breakfast. In the parlor he had left his hat and cane. On entering the room to obtain them, he found Clary already up and reading by the open window. "Good morning, gentle coz," and he playfully lifted one of the glossy curls that hid her fair face from his view. "What are you studying?"

"For eternity," said Clarissa, in a sweet solemn tone, as she raised to his face her mild serious eyes.

"'Tis an awful thought."

"Yes. But one full of joy. This is the grave, cousin Anthony. This world to which we cling, this sepulchre in which we bury our best hopes, this world of death. That which you call death is but the gate of life; the dark entrance to the land of love and sunbeams."

What a holy fire flashed from her meek eyes as she spoke! What deep enthusiasm pervaded that still fair face! Could this inspired creature be his child-like simple little cousin? Anthony continued to gaze upon her with astonishment, and when the voice ceased, he longed to hear her speak again.

"Tell me, Clary, what power has conquered, in your young heart, the fear of death?"

"Truth!--simple truth. That mighty pillar that upholds the throne of G.o.d. I sought the truth. I loved the truth, and the truth has made me free. Death! from a child I never feared death.

"I remember, Anthony, when I was a very little girl, so young that it is the very first thing that memory can recall, I was sick, and sitting upon the ground at my dear sister Lucy's feet. My head was thrown back upon her lap, and it ached sadly. She patted my curls, and leaning forward, kissed my hot brow, and told me, 'That if I were a good girl when I died I should go to heaven.' Eagerly I asked her--What was death, and what was heaven?

"Death, she told me, was the end of life here, and the beginning of a new life that could never end, in a better world. That heaven was a glorious place, the residence of the great G.o.d, who made me and the whole world. But no pain or sorrow was ever felt in that blissful place.

That all the children of G.o.d were good and happy.

"I wept for joy when she told me all this. I forgot my pain. I longed to die and go to heaven; and from that hour death became to me a great antic.i.p.ation of future enjoyment. It mingled in all my thoughts. It came to me in dreams, and it always wore a beautiful aspect.

"There was a clear deep pond in our garden at Harford, surrounded with green banks covered with flowers, and overhung with willows. I used to sit upon that bank and weave garlands of the sweet buds and tender willow shoots, and build castles about that future world. The image of the heavens lay within the waters, and the trees and flowers looked more beautiful reflected in their depths. Ah, I used to think, one plunge into that lovely mirror, and I should reach that happy world--should know all. But this I said in my simplicity, for I knew not at that tender age that self-destruction was a sin; that man was forbidden to unclose a gate of which the Almighty held the key. His merciful hand was stretched over the creature of his will, and I never made the rash attempt.

"As I grew older, I saw three loved and lovely sisters perish one by one. Each, in turn, had been a mother to me, and I loved them with my whole heart. Their sickness was sorrowful, and I often wept bitterly over their bodily sufferings. But when the conqueror came, how easily the feeble conquered. Instead of fearing the destroyer, as you call Death, they went forth to meet him with songs of joy, and welcomed him as a friend.

"Oh, had you seen my Lucy die! Had you seen the glory that rested upon her pale brow; had you heard the music that burst from her sweet lips ere they were hushed for ever; had you seen the hand that pointed upward to the skies; you would have exclaimed, with her, 'O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory?'"

The child paused, for her utterance was choked with tears. Anthony took her hand; he started, for pale as it was, it burnt with an unnatural heat. Fever was in every vein. "Are you ill, Clary?"

"Ill? Oh, no! but I never feel very well. I have had my summons, Anthony; I shall not be long here."

Seeing him look anxiously in her face, she smiled, and going to a corner of the room, brought forward a harp which had escaped his observation, and said, playfully, "I have made you sad, cousin, when I wished to cheer you. Come, I will sing to you. Fred tells me that I sing well. If you love music as I do, it will soon banish sorrow from your heart."

There was something so refres.h.i.+ng in the candor of the young creature, that it operated upon the mind of Anthony like a spell, and when the finest voice he ever in his life heard burst upon his ear, and filled the room with living harmony, he almost fancied he could see the halo encircling the lofty brows of the fair young saint:

The flowers of earth are fair As the hopes we fondly cherish; But the canker-worm of care Bids the best and brightest perish.

The heavens to-day are bright, But the morn brings storm and sorrow; And the friends we love to-night May sleep in earth to-morrow.

Spirit, unfold thy drooping wing; Up, up to thy kindred skies.

Life is a sad and weary thing; He only lives who dies.

His the immortal fruits that grow By life's eternal river, Where the s.h.i.+ning waves in their onward flow Sing Glory to G.o.d for ever.

These lines were sung to a wild, irregular air, but one full of pathos and beauty.

"You must give me that hymn, Clary."

"It is gone, and the music with it. I shall never be able to remember it again. But I will play you another which will please you better, though the words are not mine." And turning again to the harp, she sang, in a low, plaintive strain, unlike her former triumphant burst of song:

Slowly, slowly tolls the bell, A heavy note of sorrow; But gaily will its blithe notes swell The bridal peal to-morrow, To-morrow!

The dead man in his shroud to-night No hope from earth can borrow; The bride within her tresses bright Shall wreathe the rose to-morrow, To-morrow!

The drops that gem that lowly bier, Though shed in mortal sorrow, Will not recall a single tear In festal halls to-morrow!

To-morrow!

'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief, Alternate shades we borrow; To-night in tears we find relief, In smiles of joy to-morrow, To-morrow!

"What divine music!"

"And the words, Cousin Anthony--you say nothing about the words."

"Are both your own?"

"Oh, no; I am only in heart a poet. I lack the power to give utterance to--

'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'

They were written by a friend--a friend, whom, next to Fred, I love better than the whole world--Juliet Whitmore."

"And do _you_ know Juliet?"

"I will tell you all about it," said Clary, leaving her harp and sitting down beside him. "After dear Lucy died, I was very, very ill, and Fred took me to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. I was a poor, pale, wasted, woe-begone thing. We lodged next door to the house occupied by Captain Whitmore, who was spending the summer upon the coast with his family.

"He picked acquaintance with me upon the beach one day; and whenever nurse took me down to bathe, he would pat my cheek, and tell me to bring home a red rose to mix with the lily in my face. I told him, laughingly, 'That roses never grew by the sea sh.o.r.e,' and he told me to come with him to his lodgings and see. And then he introduced me to Juliet, and we grew great friends, for though she was much taller and more womanly, she was only one year older than me. And we used to walk, and talk a great deal to each other, all the time we remained at ----, which was about three months; and, though we have not met since Fred bought Millbank, and came to this part of the country, she often writes to me sweet letters, full of poetry,--such poetry as she knows will please me; and in one of her letters, Cousin Anthony, she wrote a good deal about you."

"About me!--Oh, tell me, Clary, what she said about me."

"She said," replied the child, blus.h.i.+ng very deeply, and speaking so low that Anthony could only just catch the words, "that she loved you. That you were the only man she had ever seen that realized her dreams of what man ought to be. And what she said of you made me love you too, and I felt proud that you were my cousin."

"Dear amiable Clary," and the delighted Anthony unconsciously covered the delicate white hand held within his own with pa.s.sionate kisses.

"You must not take me for Juliet," and Clary quietly withdrew her hand.

"But I am so glad that you love her, because we shall be able to talk about her. I have a small portfolio she gave me, full of pretty poems, which I will give to you, for I know all the poems by heart."

Anthony no longer heard her. He was wrapt up in a blissful dream, from which he was in no hurry to awaken. Many voices spake to his soul, but over all, he heard one soft deep voice, whose tones pierced its utmost recesses, and infused new life and hope into his breast, which said--"Juliet loves you.'"

CHAPTER XV.

She hath forsaken G.o.d and trusted man, And the dark curse by man inherited Hath fallen upon her.--S.M.