She and I Volume II Part 25

But, it was true.

I cannot bear to speak of it all now, it unmans me. It makes me, a great strong man, appear as a little sobbing child!

I do not know what went on for days after I realised what had happened to me. I was mad, I believe; for they said I had lost my senses.

And even now, sometimes, I feel as if I were not myself, when I recall the past with all its empty dreams--in which I almost attained to paradise--that were ruthlessly swept away in one fell swoop by the agony of h.e.l.l I suffered on being conscious of my loss.

No, I am not myself. There is something missing in me--something that completed my ident.i.ty; and, without which, I am not even a perfect atom on the ocean of time--as I will be nothing in, the labyrinth of eternity!--For,--

"The waves of a mighty sorrow Have whelmed the pearl of my life; And there cometh for me no morrow, To solace this desolate strife!"

When I was able to bear the narration, I was told all.

Min had caught a violent cold only a week before the Christmas-eve on which she expected me; and, in spite of all that science and love could do, she died before the dawn of the new year. She had looked forward to seeing me to the last, hoping against hope. She knew, she had said, that I would keep my word and come when she sent for me. But, when Christmas-eve arrived without my coming, she did not seem disappointed.

She then said that G.o.d had willed it otherwise:--something must have arisen to prevent my arrival:--we would meet again in the Great Hereafter:--she would leave a message for me, to reconcile me to our brief separation, ere we met once more.

And, with that thought of me in her great loving heart, with that blessed reliance in her Saviour's promise, and with a smile of ecstatic bliss on her lips, she "fell asleep"--without my seeing her, O my G.o.d!

Perhaps, on recollecting many of the incidents of my story, and calling to mind the tone and manner in which I have described them, you may have thought me then merry and light-hearted, where now I am moody and sombre?

True; but, life is made up of grave and gay.

It is hackneyed to say that "the clown that grins before the audience, who laugh with and at the merryandrew and his antics, is frequently weeping behind his mask;" yet, it is often the case.

Life is hysterical and spasmodic.

Many of us, believed by surface-studying people to be the gayest of the gay, have in reality a dull, rending pain gnawing us inwardly the while--like as the fox was gnawing the Spartan boy's entrails; and, like him again, we are too proud--for what is courage but pride?--to speak of our suffering. We do not "wear our hearts" on our sleeve "for daws to peck at!"

The "consolation of religion," you suggest?

Bah! How can I be consoled, when I have been bereft of all that made existence dear, receiving nothing in return--nothing but doubt and uncertainty, and a despair unspeakable?

Could comfort accrue to me, when I wandered back along the pathway of memory, catching sunny glimpses of the rosy future which my imagination had marked out, and then comparing these with the dreary outlook that now was mine?

When I think of what might have been and now can never happen, I rave!

I should count my loss a "gain," you say?

I cannot, I cannot!

Saint Paul might have so truly exemplified the position of earthly misery as opposed to heavenly reward; but, _I_ am powerless to give the deduction a personal application.

You tell me to look above, and have faith in the hope of rejoining her?

She is there, I know--that is, if there be a just G.o.d, a heaven, and angels in paradise; but, how can I, sinner as I am and as I have been, dream of climbing up to such a height?

It is an impossibility. I dare not hope for mercy and forgiveness.

Why, the very angels would scout me; and she, who was always glad of my approach, would now draw aside the hem of her raiment lest I should touch it and defile her!

Do you know, that, the acutest pang that thrills through my heart, arises from the consciousness, that, while she was here, I was unworthy of her--as I would be doubly so were I now able to take the wings of the morning and reach the uttermost parts of heaven where she dwells.

Learn, O brothers! loving, like myself, hopelessly, unsuccessfully:-- learn by me, by my blighted life, my lost present, my vanished hopes of heaven, that, the worst possible use to which you can put the divine image in which you are clothed, is "to go to the devil" for a woman's sake! Should she be deserving of your affection, as in most cases she will probably be--ten times more than you are of hers--this is one of the most inferior proofs that you can give of it; while, should she be unworthy of it, as may happen, you are a dolt for your pains--to put the motive of action at no higher level.

And O sister women, daughters of England, fair to look upon, tender- hearted, ministering! think, that although no man that ever lived, but one, is perfectly worthy of a pure woman's love, many an erring brother may be recalled from his down-treading steps to h.e.l.l, to higher, n.o.bler duties by your influence; as many a soul is d.a.m.ned, both here and hereafter through your default!

Bear with me yet a little longer. I shall soon be done. It is a relief to me thus to unbosom myself. Like Aenone--"while I speak of it, a little while, my heart may wander from its deeper woe."

Min taught me to pray; and I _have_ prayed; but, the most fervent spirit that ever breathed out its conscience to its Maker could never hope to undo the past.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" It was all very well for him who had faced Azrael, and looked upon himself as a dying man, to speak thus!

Beautiful as is the sentiment contained in the words, are they _true_?

I know that a brave man, one who does not credit an eternity and has not the slightest thought on the subject of future salvation or future punishment, can, when quitting the only world of his knowledge, look upon his approaching end with a courage and an apathetic calm which resemble the smiling fort.i.tude wherewith the ancient gladiators uttered their parting salutations to Nero--when, in expectation, they waited for the fatal thumb to be turned down, in token of their doom.

I can well believe that an earnest Christian, likewise, regards his instant dissolution, with equanimity and, even joy--through contemplation of the everlasting happiness in which he devoutly trusts.

Still, how do both, the irreligious man and the hopeful believer, bear the loss of those dear to them--they themselves being left behind, forsaken, to grieve over their vacant chairs, their despoiled folds?-- Has not Death his sting for them; the grave, its awful triumph?--

I do not always speak like this, however; nor are my thoughts ever bitter and despairing.

"Fret not thyself," says the Psalmist, "lest thou be moved to do evil;"

and, I try not to fret when I remember the message my darling left for me with Miss Pimpernell--who watched by her dying bed and told me what she had said, in her very own dear, dear words. It is then that I haunt the old scenes with which her presence will ever be a.s.sociated in my mind; and, weave over again the warp and woof of vanished days.

The trim market gardens dwindling down in the distance, thickly planted, as of yore; the winding country lanes intersecting, which twist and turn in every direction of the compa.s.s, and yet find their way down to the silent river that hurries by their outlets; the old stone, buildings, about whose origin we used to perplex ourselves--all remind me of her and happiness!

The very scent of the hedgerows, a pot-pourri of honeysuckles and roses, and of red, pink and white hawthorn, brings back to me her sayings when we walked and talked together there--long, long ago, it seems, although it was but yesterday.

And, in the Prebend's Walk memory is more and more busy still, as I pace along its weary length solitary, alone--for, even my poor old dog had died during my absence; and what were those idle, fair-weather acquaintances, whom the world calls "friends," to me in my grief! I am better without their company: it makes my mind unhealthy.--

So, I walk, alone with my heart and its grief!

The stately lime-trees bend as I pa.s.s them by; and, seem to sigh for her who is gone, never to return. The ruined fosse, stagnant and moss- covered, speaks of ruin and desolation. The crumbling walls that once encircled the Prebend's residence, also reveal the slowly-sure power of the destroyer's hand, more and more apparent each year that rolls over them.

But, the church, Norman--turretted and oaken-chancelled, is fullest of these bitter-sweet memories of my darling.

All its old-fas.h.i.+oned surroundings appear in keeping with my feelings:-- the carved galleries, the quaint, up-standing pulpit with its ma.s.sive sounding board, the monumental tablets on the walls, the open-raftered roof; and, when, sitting in the high box-pew, where I first saw her, the organ gives forth its tremulous swell--before some piercingly pitched note from the _vox humana_ stop, cries out like a soul in agony like mine--I can almost believe I see her again sitting opposite me, her sweet madonna face bent down over her Bible, or upturned in adoration, as I then noticed it!

I feel that her unseen presence is near me, watching me from the spirit world above; or else, hovering by me, to guide my errant footsteps on the pathway to heaven and lead my thoughts, through the recollection of her faith and purity, and love, to things on high.

Would that I felt her presence always:--would that my thoughts, my actions, my life, were such as she would have had them!

It was after I had gone to the old church for the first time--it was weeks before I could have the resolution to go--that Miss Pimpernell gave me my darling's message; touching with a tender touch on her last moments here.

She told me she had never seen or heard of so peaceful an end as hers-- such fervent faith, such earnest reliance on her Saviour. She seemed to have a presentiment from the first, of her death; and, when she was told there was no hope of her recovery, she only grieved for those she left behind; and for me and my disappointment, my old friend said, chief of all.--

"I know he will be sorry,"--she said at the last.--"But, tell him that I loved him and trusted him to the end. Tell him good-bye for me, and to be good--not for my sake only, but, for G.o.d's!"

These were the last words she uttered.