No, there was no love without suffering, he thought; even happy love had its thrills and tremors of doubt, its hours of anticipatory fears. A little while ago and his own life had stretched before him, bright, hopeful and full of enjoyment, and then a cloud had blotted out all the goodly land of promise, and he had been left a poor prisoner of hope on the dim borders, led in paths that he truly had not known—mysterious paths of suffering and patience.
Raby had not answered his sister’s reproachful speech, but he had taken her hand and pressed it, as though asking her pardon.
“I wish you thought better of Hugh,” she said softly, as she felt his caressing gesture; and Raby smiled again.
“I do think well of him. Who am I that I should judge my fellows? But I have not seen the man yet who is worthy of my Margaret. Come, is not that a lover-like speech; Hugh himself might have said it. But here we are at home; I can smell the roses in the porch; they are a sweet welcome to a blind man, are they not, Madge?”
CHAPTER III.
UNDER THE OLD WALNUT-TREE.
Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for confession’s smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;
How sweet in that dark hour to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us—will not God forgive?
Keble’s Christian Year.
Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire the picturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantastically twisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls half smothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep, shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool and inviting on a hot summer’s day, while the ever-open door gave a glimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass door leading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in front of the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old garden full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace, and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers’s favorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday’s sermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down the straight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circular seat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the “Master’s summer study.” It was here that Margaret read to him in the fresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or in the evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and the lark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in the corn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched in the branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the “early worm.”
People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours over such dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and the abstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers’s soul delighted must have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had but known it, their pity was perfectly wasted.
Margaret’s vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying and assimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr. Ferrers’s favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to read over again some grand passage or trenchant argument.
Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had found the brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of the extent of Margaret’s erudition; in earlier years she had learned a little Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby—she was indeed “his eyes,” as he fondly termed her, and those who listened to the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knew how much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research was owing to Margaret’s unselfish devotion; Milton’s daughters reading to him in his blindness were not more devoted than she.
When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led the way to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble’s “Christian Year” in her hand and a volume of Herbert’s poems—for wearied by his labors, Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to be read to him between the services, or often he bade her close her book or read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon.
The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broad gravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peaches ripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there was another seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days one could sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round one with temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, where sweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busy brown workers, “the little liverymen of industry,” as Raby called them, or “his preachers in brown.”
Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her place beside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep lines furrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke of some effort to repress heart-weariness.
“He is thinking of our poor child,” she said to herself, as she turned to the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: “From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness”—the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for his evening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voice lingered involuntarily over the third verse, a sigh burst from Raby’s lips.
“Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,
Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart,
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:
Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed
By the kind Saviour at thy side;
For healing and for balm e’en now thy hour is come.”
“Oh, that it were come for both of us,” muttered Raby, in a tone so husky with pain that Margaret stopped.
“You are thinking of Crystal,” she said, softly, leaning toward him with a face full of sympathy. “That verse was beautiful; it reminded me of our child at once”—but as he hid his face in his hands without answering her, she sat motionless in her place, and for a long time there was silence between them.
But Margaret’s heart was full, and she was saying to herself:
“Why need I have said that, as though he ever forgot her? poor Raby—poor, unhappy brother—forget her! when every night in the twilight I see him fold his hands as though in prayer, and in the darkness can hear him whisper, ‘God bless my darling and bring her home to me again.’ ”
“Margaret!”
“Yes, dear;” but as she turned quickly at the beseeching tone in which her name was uttered, a smile came to her lips, for Raby’s hand was feeling in his inner breast-pocket, and she knew well what that action signified; in another moment he had drawn out a letter and had placed it in Margaret’s outstretched palm. Ever since this letter had reached them about two months ago, each Sunday the same silent request had been made to her, and each time, as now, she had taken it without hesitation or comment, and had read it slowly from beginning to end.
The envelope bore the Leeds postmark, and the letter itself was evidently written hurriedly in a flowing, girlish hand.
“My Dearest Margaret,” it began, “I feel to-night as though I must write to you; sometimes the homesickness is so bitter—the