CHAPTER XXX.PEACE!
“Victory all along the lines!”
This was the triumphant report made from a thousand pulpits on the Sunday following the elections, and theTe Deumwas sung in the churches with increased fervour.
“So political!” said the objectors; but since politics had now become a part of Christianity, why not?
There was great rejoicing at Scourby and Darentdale and its neighbourhood, for Mr. Whitwell was duly elected by a majority of undreamed of magnitude.
And if they could have understood it, there would have been still greater gladness in the hearts of a million of the children of the nation, for the first duty to which the members of the new Parliament were pledged to address themselves was the amelioration of their condition. Henceforth, every child’s life was to be considered sacred, and of priceless value to the State. There were to be no more little lives sacrificed to the passion of brutal men and women, for it was at last recognised that every child born in England had a soul, had its rights, its powers also, and possibilities; and if there were parents who did not desire to own it and care for it, the country did. How it was to be paid for, and who was to pay—whether it was to be housed, fed, and trained by the State, which would recoup itself by certain services rendered in the future; or whether unwilling parents should be compelled to work for their own children; also, whether it would be more easy to secure for the child the love and motherly ministrations which are absolutely essential to its well-being in the home of its parents—or in other homes, from parently, but childless, people, were details for the Government to settle. “It is your duty to solve these and other problems which are waiting,” said the people to their representatives. “It is our will that every abuse which is a national disgrace shall be swept away; and if you have not the ability to do it, or do not care to take the necessary trouble, we have made a mistake in our choice, and shall call upon you to vacate the seats which others can more worthily fill.”
So it was perfectly understood that there were to be nomore days weakly and wickedly wasted by the stupid talk of obstructives, many of whom had gone to Westminster hitherto for the expressed purpose of preventing the opposite party from doing anything, since they were not strong enough to do anything themselves. It had been prophesied years before that when the Church “meant business” there would be change in many things, and the Church meant business now, and was determined that henceforth in England the Houses of Legislature should be composed of real men, with not one idiot among them. And it will be readily understood that there were, therefore, great rejoicings among all men and women who were the true patriots of the land.
But while these changes, for which, during many years, a silent preparation had been going on, began to be accomplished, there were the usual joys and sorrows in the domestic lives of the people.
Henry Harris recorded his vote early, as did also Dr. Stapleton, and then they both went away to London, the former to consult the greatest physician of the day, and the latter to accompany him, and give him such support as friendship could if he should need it.
Persons in search of the dramatic elements of our life in its reality would scarcely find them more developed than in the house of an eminent doctor. In the waiting-room, where patients gather and await their turn, what striking contrasts and vivid harmonies there are! Here is an unloved wife, who yet desperately clings to the life that has so little to offer here; and there is one so deeply loved that her husband would part with his all to buy one little year longer which they might spend together. Here is a man who might drop out of Society at once and never be missed; and there is another, of whom it is said in the town of his residence that he cannot possibly be spared, for there is no one, and even no dozen of men, who could fill his place. Yonder is one for whom his mother prays: “Oh, take him that he may do no more evil!” And here another for whom ten thousand people pray, “Oh, spare him that he may yet further bless us and glorify Thee!” And what breathless suspense there is in the consulting-room of the great man! No prisoner at the bar waits for the verdict of the jury with more consuming anxiety than does the innocent man, whose heart is full of his wife and children, as the perspiration stands in great drops on his forehead, while the sentence of hope or of doom is pronounced by the oracle. He may be wrong, and often is, this man whose fiat has such terriblepower; but if he has a heart it must often know the acutest pangs of sympathy.
Mr. Harris was pale but calm when Dr. Stapleton introduced him. Really, he did not share his friend’s fears. It was true that he had suffered much, but not enough to indicate any disease that might prove fatal. Of that he felt sure, or thought he did; but his eyes had read the faces of the men and women who had waited as he had, and his feelings had been greatly touched. It was more of them than of himself he thought while he answered the physician’s questions and submitted to his examination. He was surprised when the Doctor at last said, “If you can spare the time to wait I should like to call a friend who understands these cases even better than I.”
“Certainly I can wait,” replied Harris; “I have no other errand in London but this.”
“Then I will see if he can be summoned,” said the Doctor, as he went towards his telephone.
“You are not quite sure whether there is anything the matter with me?” asked Harris.
“Perfectly sure,” was the reply; “but there may be something that can be done.”
The other doctor arrived, and Harris was not kept long in suspense. “I am sorry to tell you that yours is a hopeless case.” It was put bluntly, and yet the tones of the man’s voice were as gentle as he could make them.
“There is no cure for me?”
“I am afraid none; at least, we do not know of any.”
Harris’s face became white to the lips, and he did not speak for a few seconds. Presently he said, “Very well. Other men have had to bear pain for many years; what they have done I must do. I suppose it will be years?”
“Do you positively wish me to tell you?”
“Most certainly; the exact truth, as far as you know it.”
“I am afraid it will not even be months.”
The doctor considerately left his patient for a few minutes after he had thus pronounced sentence upon him. Stapleton was waiting anxiously. He was almost certain there was no hope, and yet it was a keen disappointment to him when he found his worst fears confirmed.
“He will bear it like a man,” he said, “for there are few better and braver men in the world than Harris. I am truly sorry. I shall lose a friend whom I greatly respect. You can have no idea what a fine fellow he is!”
“Has he a wife and children?”
“No; he has a granddaughter, or a ward, I do not knowwhich—a young lady who loves and honours him; but all the village in which he lives will mourn him.”
“The worst of it is the horrible suffering he must bear.”
“Ah, yes! It is terrible to think of what it must be before release comes. How long will it be?”
“Three or four weeks probably, not more, though he is a strong man, and I should judge that he has not played fast and loose with his constitution.”
When Stapleton joined his friend he was met with the kind smile which always had a wonderful tenderness and sweetness in it, quite characteristic of the man. It almost brought tears to Stapleton’s eyes now, and he silently grasped the hand that was quite firm, and whose clasp was as true as friendship itself. “It is all right, Stapleton,” he said. “Do not grieve for me; and let us get home as soon as we can.”
The short railway ride between London and Darentdale was through a pretty well-wooded country. It had never appeared so beautiful as now to the eyes that would soon be closed to it all. The man had loved Nature in all her moods, and she seemed to put on her most beautiful garments in which to receive the farewells of her friend. His eyes swam with tears several times as they looked out at the cool woodland ways, the green meadows, and the bright blue skies. When the train stopped at one of the village stations a lark was pouring down a shower of song upon them. Harris was glad it was so happy, but the whispering leaves seemed to have more sympathy with him. It was as if they knew that his life was as transient as theirs, and they were sorry for him as for themselves. “We shall probably pass away together,” said his thought. “They will fall to the ground, and so shall I. But I am no leaf, to perish when my body withers. There is a future for me. Where? I shall soon know. I am not afraid, for God is love.”
“I suppose you would rather not talk,” said Dr. Stapleton.
“Thank you. I have much to think of. I must put my house in order, you know, since I shall surely die,” he answered.
And then he thought of Margaret. He must make her future more sure. He must indeed tell her everything now, and he would see Dallington first of all. They must be married at once; there was really no reason why they should not be; and if they were, and they both knew all, he would have no misgivings in regard to his dear child to make his death the harder. “Presently,” he reminded himself, “it will be too late to do; I shall only be able to bear.”
Margaret’s heart sank with dismay when she saw him. He looked like a man who, though habitually calm, had been forced into a conflict so bitter that it had taken his very life from him. She threw her arms around him, and drew him to a chair, and put his head upon her breast, and kissed him with the fervour and tenderness of a daughter. He had not told her that he was ill; but she had feared, and now she knew.
“Dear, darling, how tired you are!” she said. “I shall fetch a sponge and bathe your face, and you must have some tea at once. Rest a little first.”
He did not speak, but lifted his hand caressingly to her face, and felt that, but for distressing her, he must have sobbed.
After partaking of some refreshment, however, he revived, and they both tried to be cheerful.
“How have you got on without me to-day?” he asked. “Has there been a crowd of customers? Have you sold any more of the poets?”
“At one time the shop was very full,” she answered. “There were three people in it together, and all talking at once.”
“How did you manage without assistance? Did you call Ann to help you?”
“I could not, for Ann was in the midst of one of her most thrilling stories, which she was recounting to the baker, and I knew that genius does not like to be interrupted. But I was as adroit as I could be, and my customers were patient; so we managed fairly. And I have such news for you—James Peters is engaged.”
“Really? Well, he’s a nice boy, and deserves a good wife. Who is it that he has chosen?”
“Guess!”
“Nancy Jones? Emma Swift? Louisa Mellars? No? I give it up.”
“I think it is very ungallant of you not to guess me. Why should it not be me? I am tall enough and young enough and all the rest enough for him, I hope.”
“He knows better than to choose you, Madge. Tell me, now—Jennie Swain? Well, I never!”
“But so it is; Jennie has the prize, and a dozen of us have nothing but the power and privilege of tearing our hair if we please.”
“You respect your hair, Madge, far too highly to tear it.”
So they talked on, while a great burden of fear was on Margaret’s heart, and it seemed to Harris that the shadowy man with the scythe stood behind his chair.
There was presently a pause in the conversation; and afterward Harris resolved to prepare Margaret a little for what was coming.
“What do you think took me to London this morning, Madge?” he asked.
“The train, dear.”
“How clever a guesseryouare! And the train was punctual. I went to see the great Doctor Fulton.”
“I am glad you did, for Dr. Stapleton is young, and has had comparatively little experience. Have you brought home some medicine? It must be time for you to take it.”
“It is no use to take the medicine. He says that nothing can cure me.”
“Oh, Graf! Graf! You must not say such a thing as that to me.”
“But you must know it, my darling, some time, and soon, for it is not going to be long; and if you love me you will be glad of that, for the pain of the disease which I have is terrible to bear, and it would be hard for you to see me suffer.”
“Oh, my dear, it cannot be! There is surely some other doctor who can do something. What becomes of all this modern science that boasts itself so much if it cannot help one in an emergency like this?”
“It is all right, Madge, dear; a man must die some time. Of course, he does not want to, and never would, but we all have to, you know. Life is very short here, but it is continued somewhere—of that I am increasingly sure.”
A great darkness came over Margaret. What could she do if this best friend of hers were to be taken now, when it seemed he could the least be spared?
“I will tell you all you ought to know, dear, about yourself, and give you the keys so that you may find the money you will need, and——”
A faintness came over him, and he gasped for breath.
“Oh, not now,” cried Margaret. “Do not distress yourself. I will not hear anything to-night.”
“To-morrow, then.”
“Yes, to-morrow, or next week, or any time. It does not matter about me.”
“Margaret, sing to me that hymn of Faber’s—
“I worship Thee, sweet Will of God,And all Thy ways adore,
“I worship Thee, sweet Will of God,And all Thy ways adore,
“I worship Thee, sweet Will of God,And all Thy ways adore,
“I worship Thee, sweet Will of God,
And all Thy ways adore,
It will do us both good just now; if we sing the words we shall be able to feel the sentiment.”
But Margaret was on her knees by his side, sobbing out her grief. She soon was ashamed of herself, however. She must bear up for his sake, who had so much more to bear.
“I cannot sing, dear,” she said; “but we will each have the book open before us, and I will play it through.”
She did so, and then he asked her to read to him.
“The prayer of Jesus for His disciples, Margaret, and His words to them—they are for you and for me, dear, as much as for any one else.”
“Surely.”
And Margaret read the wonderful words to which we all turn, quite naturally, in the supreme moments of our lives, and which comfort us as nothing else can do when death or trouble has forced itself into our houses and will not be turned out. Margaret knew them by heart, and so did Henry Harris, and yet they seemed to have new power and grace on that evening, for the face of Harris was lighted with joy as he listened.
“‘Never man spake like this Man,’” he said. “His Sermon on the Mount is for everyday life, and this, His last address, is for the evening, when the working day is over and rest is near. I have not done all that I might have done; but I am really tired, and shall be as glad of my rest as if I had deserved it. I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety. Margaret, what a marvellous conqueror of men is this Jesus Christ!”
“Ah, yes!” said Margaret, with glowing eyes; “and all the world must surely call Him Lord some day.”
“Someday. Yes. I wonder which day it will be, Margaret. I think we could sing now, dear. Let it be, ‘Jesu, lover of my soul.’”
They sang it together—there is no hymn like it for such a time. Harris had a good bass voice and Margaret a sweet mezzo-soprano; and the hymn rose softly but melodiously to heaven. It is a fine prayer, and at the same time a grand ascription of praise. When it was ended, Harris repeated the collect, “Lighten our darkness,” and Margaret the Lord’s. Prayer, and both hearts were calmed.
“It is time you were in bed, dear,” Margaret said; “you are so tired.”
“Yes, I think I shall sleep well to-night. Hark! the boys in the street are crying the state of the poll! See if Whitwell is all right, dear.”
“A magnificent majority,” said Margaret, holding the paper towards him.
“Hurrah! I am very glad! The old bad times are past. The new aristocracy of character takes its proper place. The best men, the true kings, whom God will crown, will be henceforth the rulers of men. I hope you will live long to enjoy it all, Margaret. As for me I shall be satisfied when——”
He fell back, and Margaret thought he had fainted. She called Ann Johnson to open all the doors, while she tried to restore him.
John Dallington and Dr. Stapleton at that moment came to bring the news of the election, and, seeing the door open, entered.
“He is faint!” cried Margaret, in agony.
But Dr. Stapleton said, gently, “It is more than faintness. It is perfect peace.”