Heriot's Choice Part 36

Do they know that our hearts are sore, That the cup of sorrow oft overflows, And our eyes grow dim with weeping for those-- For those who shall "weep no more "?

And when the Angel of Death shall call, And earthly chains from about us fall, Will they meet us with clasping hand?

But never, ah! never a voice replies From the "many mansions" above the skies To tell of the Unknown Land!'[1]

[Footnote 1: H. M. B.]

'Aunt Milly, why did you show me this? and Richard's eyes, full of reproachful pain, fixed themselves somewhat sternly on her face.

'Because I want you to understand. Look, there is another on the next leaf; see, she has called it "A little while" and "for ever." My poor girl, every word is so true of her own earnest nature.'

'"For ever," they are fading, Our beautiful, our bright; They gladden us "a little while,"

Then pa.s.s away from sight; "A little while" we're parted From those who love us best, Who gain the goal before us And enter into rest.

'Our path grows very lonely, And still those words beguile, And cheer our footsteps onward; 'Tis but a little while.

'A little while earth's sorrow,-- Its burdens and its care, Its struggles 'neath the crosses, Which we of earth must bear.

'There's time to do and suffer-- To work our Master's will, But not for vain regretting For thoughts or deeds of ill.

Too short to spend in weeping O'er broken hopes and flowers, For wandering and wasting, Is this strange life of ours.

'Though, when our cares oppress us, Earth's "little while" seems long, If we would win the battle We must be brave and strong.

And so with humble spirit, But highest hopes and aim, The goal so often longed for We may perhaps attain.

'"For ever" and "for ever"

To dwell among the blest, Where sorrows never trouble The deep eternal rest; When one by one we gather Beneath our Father's smile, And Heaven's sweet "for ever"

Drowns earth's sad "little while."'[2]

'Well, Richard?'

[Footnote 2: H. M. B.]

But there was no answer; only the buzzing of insects in giddy circles broke the silence, mingled with the far-off twitter of birds. Only when Mildred again looked up, the paper had fluttered to their feet, and Richard had covered his face with his shaking hands.

'Dear Cardie, forgive me; I did not mean to pain you like this.'

'Aunt Milly,' in a voice so hoa.r.s.e and changed that Mildred quite started, 'if she die, if Olive die, I shall never know a moment's peace again;' and the groan that accompanied the words wrung Mildred's tender heart with compa.s.sion.

'G.o.d forbid we should lose her, Richard,' she returned, gently.

'Do not try to deceive me,' he returned, bitterly, in the same low, husky tones. 'I heard what he said--what you both said--that it could not go on much longer; and I saw his face when he thought he was alone.

There is no hope--none.'

'Oh, Richard, hush,' replied Mildred, in uncontrollable agitation; 'while there is life, there is hope. Think of David, "While the child was yet alive I fasted and wept;" he could not tell whether G.o.d meant to be gracious to him or not. We will pray, you and I, that our girl may be spared.'

But Richard recoiled in positive horror.

'I pray, Aunt Milly? I, who have treated her so cruelly? I, who have flung hard words to her, who have refused to forgive her? I----' and he hid his pale, convulsed face in his hands again.

'But you have forgiven her now, you do her justice. You believe how truly she loved, she will ever love you.'

'Too late,' he groaned. 'Yes, I see it now, she was too good for us; we made her unhappy, and G.o.d is taking her home to her mother.'

'Then you will let her go, dear Cardie. Hush, it would break her heart to see you so unhappy;' and Mildred knelt down on the gra.s.s beside him, and stroked back the dark waves of hair tenderly. She knew the pent-up anguish of weeks must have its vent, now that his stoical manhood had broken down. Remorse, want of rest, deadly conflict and anxiety, had at last overcome the barrier of his reserve; and, as he flung himself down beside her, with his face hidden in the bracken, she knew the hot tears were welling through his fingers.

For a long time she sat beside him, till his agitation had subsided; and then, in her low, quiet voice, she began to talk to him. She spoke of Olive's purity and steadfastness of purpose, her self-devotedness and power of love; and Richard raised his head to listen. She told him of those Sunday afternoons spent by her mother's grave, that quiet hour of communion bracing her for the jars and discords of the week. And she hinted at those weary moods of perpetual self-torture and endless scruple, which hindered all vigorous effort and clouded her youth.

'A diseased sensibility and overmuch imagination have resulted in the despondency that has so discouraged and annoyed you, Richard. She has dwelt so long among shadows of her own raising, that she has grown a weary companion to healthier minds; her very love is so veiled by timidity that it has given you an impression of her coldness.'

'Blind fool that I was,' he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. 'Oh, Aunt Milly, do you think she can ever forgive me?'

'There can be no question of forgiveness at all; do not distress her by asking for it, Richard. Olive's heart is as simple as a little child's; it is not capable of resentment. Tell her that you love her, and you will make her happy.'

Richard did not answer for a minute, his thoughts had suddenly taken a new turn.

'I never could tell how it was she read me so correctly,' he said at last; 'her telling my father, and not me, was so incomprehensible.'

'She did not dare to speak to you, and she was so unhappy; but, Richard, even Olive does not hold the clue to all this trouble.'

He started nervously, changed colour, and plucked the blades of gra.s.s restlessly. But in his present softened mood, Mildred knew he would not repulse her; trouble might be near at hand, but at least he would not refuse her sympathy any longer.

'Dear Cardie, your difficulty is a very real one, and only time and prayerful consideration can solve it; but beware how you let the wishes of your dead mother, dear and binding as they may be to you, prove a snare to your conscience. Richard, I knew her well enough to be sure that was the last thing she would desire.'

The blood rushed to Richard's face, eager words rose to his lips, but he restrained them; but the grateful gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.

'That is your real opinion, Aunt Milly.'

'Indeed it is. Unready hands, an unprepared heart, are not fit for the sanctuary. I may wish with you that difficulties had not arisen, that you could carry out your parents' dedication and wish; but vocation cannot be forced, neither must you fall into Olive's mistake of supposing self-sacrifice is the one thing needful. After all, our first duty is to be true to ourselves.'

'Aunt Milly, how wise you are!' he exclaimed in involuntary admiration.

'No one, not even my father, put it so clearly. You are right, I do not mean to sacrifice myself unless I can feel it my duty to do so. But it is a question I must settle with myself.'

'True, dear, only remember the brave old verse--

"Stumbleth he who runneth fast?

Dieth he who standeth still?

Not by haste or rest can ever Man his destiny fulfil."

"Never hasting, never resting," a fine life-motto, Cardie; but our time is nearly at an end, we must be going now.'

As they walked along, Richard returned of his own accord to the subject they had been discussing, and owned his indecision was a matter of great grief to him.

'Conscientious doubts will find their answer some day,' replied Mildred; 'but I wish you had not refused to confide them to your father.'

Richard bit his lip.

'It was wrong of me; I know it, Aunt Milly; but it would have been so painful to him, and so humiliating to myself.'

'Hardly so painful as to be treated like a stranger by his own son. You have no idea how sorely your reserve has fretted him.'

'It was cowardly of me; but indeed, Aunt Milly, the whole question was involved in difficulty. My father is sometimes a little vague in his manner of treating things; he is more scholarly than practical, and I own I dreaded complication and disappointment.'