Dawn

  CHAPTER L

  Three months had passed since that awful Christmas Day. Angela washeart-broken, and, after the first burst of her despair, turnedherself to the only consolation which was left her. It was not of thisworld.

  She did not question the truth of the dreadful news that Lady Bellamyhad brought her, and, if ever a doubt did arise in her breast, aglance at the ring and the letter effectually quelled it. Nor did sheget brain-fever or any other illness; her young and healthy frame wastoo strong a citadel to be taken out of hand by sorrow. And this toher was one of the most wonderful things in her affliction. It hadcome and crushed her, and life still went on much as before. The sunof her system had fallen, and yet the system was not appreciablyderanged. It was dreadful to her to think that Arthur was dead, but anadded sting lay in the fact that she was not dead too. Oh! how gladshe would have been to die, since death had become the gate throughwhich she needs must pass to reach her lover's side.

  For it had been given to Angela, living so much alone, and thinking solong and deeply upon these great mysteries of our being, to soar tothe heights of a noble faith. To the intense purity of her mind, aliving heaven presented itself, a comfortable place, very differentfrom the vague and formularised abstractions with which we are for themost part satisfied; where Arthur and her mother were waiting to greether, and where the great light of the Godhead would shine around themall. She grew to hate her life, the dull barrier of the flesh thatstood between her and her ends. Still she ate and drank enough tosupport it, still dressed with the same perfect neatness as before,still lived, in short, as though Arthur had not died, and the lightand colour had not gone out of her world.

  One day--it was in March--she was sitting in Mr. Fraser's studyreading the "Shakespeare" which Arthur had given to her, and in thewoes of others striving to forget her own. But the attempt proved afailure; she could not concentrate her thoughts, they wouldcontinually wander away into space in search of Arthur.

  She was dressed in black; from the day that she heard her lover wasdead, she would wear no other colour, and as she gazed, with her handsidly clasped before her, out at the driving sleet and snow, Mr. Fraserthought that he had never seen statue, picture, or woman of suchsweet, yet majestic beauty. But it had been filched from the featuresof an immortal. The spirit-look which at times had visited her from achild now continually shone upon her face, and to the sight of sinfulmen her eyes seemed almost awful in their solemn calm and purity. Shesmiled but seldom now, and, when she did, it was in those grey eyesthat the radiance began: her features scarcely seemed to move.

  "What are you thinking of, Angela?"

  "I am thinking, Mr. Fraser, that it is only fourteen weeks to-daysince Arthur died, and that it is very likely that I shall liveanother forty or fifty years before I see him. I am only twenty-one,and I am so strong. Even this shock has not hurt me."

  "Why should you want to die?"

  "Because all the beauty and light has gone out of my life; because Iprefer to trust myself into the hands of God rather than to the tendermercies of the world; because he is there, and I am here, and I amtired of waiting."

  "Have you no fear of death?"

  "I have never feared death, and least of all do I fear it now. Why,the veriest coward would not shrink back when the man she loved waswaiting for her. And I am not a coward, and if I were told that I mustdie within an hour, I could say, 'How beautiful upon the mountains arethe feet of Him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace!'Cannot you understand me? If all your life and soul were wrapped up inone person, and she died, would you not long to go to her?"

  Mr. Fraser made no reply for a while, but in his turn gazed out at thedrifting snow, surely not more immaculately pure than this woman whocould love with so divine a love. At length he spoke.

  "Angela, do you know that it is wrong to talk so? You have no right toset yourself up against the decrees of the Almighty. In His wisdom Heis working out ends of which you are one of the instruments. Who areyou that you should rebel?"

  "No one--a grain, an atom, a wind-tossed feather; but what am I to dowith my life, how am I to occupy all the coming years?"

  "With your abilities, that is a question easy to answer. Work, write,take the place in scholastic or social literature which I have trainedyou to fill. For you, fame and fortune lie in an inkstand; your mindis a golden key that will open to your sight all that is worth seeingin the world, and pass you into its most pleasant places. You canbecome a famous woman, Angela."

  She turned upon him sadly.

  "I had such ideas; for Arthur's sake I wished to do something great;indeed I had already formed a plan. But, Mr. Fraser, like manyanother, when I lost my love I lost my ambition too; both lie buriedin his grave. I have nothing left to work for; I do not care for fameor money for myself, they would only have been valuable to give tohim. At twenty-one I seem to have done with the world's rewards andpunishments, its blanks and prizes, its satisfactions and desires,even before I have learnt what they are. My hopes are as dull andleaden as that sky, and yet the sun is behind it. Yes, that is my onlyhope, the sun is behind it though we cannot see it. Do not talk to meof ambition, Mr. Fraser. I am broken-spirited, and my only ambition isfor rest, the rest He gives to His beloved----"

  "Rest, Angela! that is the cry of us all, we strive for rest, and herewe never find it. You suffer, but do not think that you are alone,everybody suffers in their degree, though perhaps such as you, withthe nerves of your mind bared to the roughness of the world's weather,feel mental pain the more acutely. But, my dear, there are few reallyrefined men and women of sensitive organization, who have not at timessent up that prayer for rest, any rest, even eternal sleep. It is theprice they pay for their refinement. But they are not alone. If theheart's cry of every being who endures in this great universe could becollected into a single prayer, that prayer would be, 'Thou who madeus, in pity give us rest.'"

  "Yes, we suffer, no doubt, all of us, and implore a peace that doesnot come. We must learn

  "'How black is night when golden day is done, How drear the blindness that hath seen the sun!'

  "You can tell me that; but tell me, you who are a clergyman, andstronger to stand against sorrow than I, how can we win even a partialpeace and draw the sting from suffering? If you know a way, howeverhard, tell it me, for do you know," and she put her hand to her headand a vacant look came into her eyes, "I think that if I have toendure much more of the anguish which I sometimes suffer, or get anymore shocks, I shall go mad? I try to look to the future only and torise superior to my sorrows, and to a certain extent I succeed, but mymind will not always carry the strain put upon it, but falls heavilyto earth like a winged bird. Then it is that, deprived of its higherfood, and left to feed upon its own sadness and to brood upon the barefact of the death of the man I loved--I sometimes think, as men arenot often loved--that my spirit almost breaks down. If you can tell meany cure, anything which will bring me comfort, I shall indeed begrateful to you."

  "I think I can, Angela. If you will no longer devote yourself tostudy, you have only to look round to find another answer to yourquestion as to what you are to do? Are there no poor in these partsfor you to visit? Cannot your hands make clothes to cover those whohave none? Is there no sickness that you can nurse, no sorrow that youcan comfort? I know that even in this parish there are many homeswhere your presence would be as welcome as a sunbeam in winter.Remember, Angela, that grief can be selfish as well as pleasure."

  "You are right, Mr. Fraser, you always are right; I think I am selfishin my trouble, but it is a fault that I will try to mend. Indeed, tolook at it in that light only, my time is of no benefit to myself, Imay as well devote it to others."

  "If you do, your labour will bring its own reward, for in helpingothers to bear their load you will wonderfully lighten your own. Norneed you go far to begin. Why do you not see more of your own father?You are naturally bound to love him. Yet it is but rarely that youspeak to him
."

  "My father! you know he does not like me, my presence is always asource of irritation to him, he cannot even bear me to look at him."

  "Oh, surely that must be your fancy; probably he thinks you do notcare about him. He has always been a strange and wayward man, I know,but you should remember that he has had bitter disappointments inlife, and try to soften him and win him to other thoughts. Do this andyou will soon find that he will be glad enough of your company."

  "I will try to do as you say, Mr. Fraser, but I confess I have onlysmall hopes of any success in that direction. Have you any parish workI can do?"

  Nor did the matter end there, as is so often the case where parishwork and young ladies are concerned. Angela set to her charitableduties with a steady determination that made her services veryvaluable. She undertook the sole management of a clothing club, initself a maddening thing to ordinary mortals, and had an eye to thedistribution of the parish coals. Of mothers' meetings and othercheerful parochial entertainments, she became the life and soul.Giving up her mathematics and classical reading, she took to knittingbabies' vests and socks instead; indeed, the number of articles whichher nimble fingers turned out in a fortnight was a pleasant surprisefor the cold toes of the babies. And, as Mr. Fraser had prophesied,she found that her labour was of a sort which brought a certainreward.