CHAPTER XLVII
THE RETURN OF SPRING
The smoke curls up once more from the chimneys of Alton Grange; thewoman in possession, she with the soapy arms and unkempt hair, who wasalways cleaning with no result, has been paid for her occupancy and sentback to her own untidy home in the adjoining village. The windows arefresh painted, the lawn fresh mown, the garden trimmed, and the walksrolled; nay, the unwonted sound of wheels is sometimes heard upon thegravel sweep in front of the house, for the country neighbours, a racewho wage unceasing war against anything mysterious, and whose thirst for"news," and energy in the acquisition of gossip, are as meritorious asthey are uncalled for, have lavished their attentions on the solitary,and welcomed him back to his lonely home far more warmly than hedeserves. The estate, too, has been at nurse ever since he went away.An experienced man of business has taken it into his own especialcharge, but somehow the infant has not attained any great increase ofvigour under his fostering care, and the proprietor is ungrateful enoughto think he could have managed it better for himself. Inside, the houseis dark and gloomy still. I miss poor Bold dreadfully. After a day ofattention to those trivial details which the landowner dignifies withthe title of "business," or worse still, of vacant, dreary hours passedin listless apathy, it is very lonely to return to a solitary dinner anda long silent evening, to feel that the wag of a dog's tail against thefloor would be company, and to own there is solace in the sympathy evenof a brute's unreasoning eye. It is not good for man to be alone, andthat is essentially a morbid state in which solitude is felt to be acomfort and a relief; more especially does the want of occupation andcompanionship press upon one who has been leading a life of busyevery-day excitement such as falls to the lot of the politician or thesoldier; and it has always appeared to me that the worst of all possiblepreparations for the quiet, homely duties of a country gentleman, arethe very two professions so generally chosen as the portals by which theheir of a landed estate is to enter life. It takes years to tame thesoldier, and the politician seldom _really_ settles down at all; but ofcourse you will do what your fathers did--if the boy is dull, you willgird a sword upon his thigh; if he is conceited, you will get him intoParliament, and fret at the obtuse deafness of the House. Perhaps youmay as well be disappointed one way as the other; whatever you do withhim, by the time he is thirty you will wish you had done differently,and so will he. Action, however, is the only panacea for despondency;work, work, is the remedy for lowness of spirits. What am I that Ishould sit here with folded hands, and repine at the common lot? Thereare none so humble but they can do some little good, and in this thepoor are far more active than the rich. Let me take example by the daylabourers at my gate. There is a poor family not a mile from here whosadly lack assistance, and whom for the last fortnight I have neglectedto visit. A gleam of sunshine breaks in through the mullioned window,and gilds even the black oak wainscoting: the clouds are passing rapidlyaway, I will take my hat and walk off at once towards the common. Oh,the hypocrisy of human motives! The poor family are tenants ofConstance de Rohan; their cottage lies in the direct road to BeverleyManor.
It has been raining heavily, and the earth is completely saturated withmoisture. The late spring, late even for England, is bursting forthalmost with tropical luxuriance. Dank and dripping, the fragrant hedgesglisten in the noonday beams. Brimful is every blossom in the orchard,fit chalice for the wild bird or the bee. Thick and tufted, the wetgrass sprouts luxuriantly in the meadow-lands where the cowslip hangsher scented head, and the buttercup, already dry, reflects the sunshinefrom its golden hollow. The yellow brook laughs merrily on beneath thefoot-bridge, and the swallows shoot hither and thither high up againstthe clear blue sky. How fresh and tender is the early green of thenoble elms in the foreground, and the distant larches on the hill. Howsweet the breath of spring; how fair and lovable the smile upon herface. How full of hope and promise and life and light and joy. Oh, thegiant capacity for happiness of the human heart! Oh, what a world itmight be! What a world it is!
The children are playing about before the door of the cottage on thecommon. Dirty, and noisy, and rosy, the little urchins stare,wonder-struck, at the stranger, and disappear tumultuously into certainback settlements, where there are a garden, and a beehive, and a pig.An air of increased comfort pervades the dwelling, and its mistress haslost the wan, anxious look it pained me so to see some ten days ago.With a corner of her apron she dusts a chair for me to sit down, andprepares herself for a gossip, in which experience tells me the talkingwill be all one way. "Her 'old man' is gone out to-day for the firsttime to his work. He is quite stout again at last, but them low feverskeeps a body down terrible, and the doctor's stuff was no good, and shethinks after all it's the fine weather as has brought him round;leastways, that and the broth Lady Beverley sent him from the ManorHouse; and she to come up herself only yesterday was a week, through apour of rain, poor dear! for foreign parts has not agreed with her, andshe's not so rosy as she were when I knew her first, but a born angelall the same, and ever will be."
Tears were in the good woman's eyes, and her voice was choked. I stayedto hear no more. Lady Beverley, as she called her, was, then, once moreat home. She had been here--here on this very spot, but one short weekago. I could have knelt down and kissed the very ground she hadtrodden. I longed if it was only to see her footprints. I, who hadschooled myself to such a pitch of stoicism and apathy, who had stifledand rooted out and cut down the germs of passion till I had persuadedmyself that they had ceased to exist, and that my heart had become hardand barren as the rock,--I, who had thought that when the time came Ishould meet her in London with a kindly greeting, as became an oldfriend, and never turn to look the way she went; and now, because shehad been here a week ago, because there was a possibility of her beingat the moment within three miles of where I stood, to feel the bloodmounting to my brow, the tears starting to my eyes,--oh! it was scarletshame, and yet it was burning happiness too.
The sun shone brighter, the birds sang more merrily now. There was nolonger a mockery in the spring. The dry branch seemed to blossom oncemore--the worn and weary nature to imbibe fresh energies and renewedlife. There was hope on this side the grave, hope that might becherished without bitterness or remorse. Very dark had been the night,but day was breaking at last. Very bitter and tedious had been thewinter, but spring, real spring, was bursting forth. I could hardlybelieve in the prospect of happiness thus opened to me. I trembled tothink of what would be my destiny if I should lose it all again.
In the ecstasy of joy, as in the tumult of uncertainty and the agony ofgrief, there is but one resource for failing human strength, how feebleand failing none know so well as those whom their fellows deem thenoblest and the strongest. That resource has never yet played man falseat his need. The haughty brow may be compelled to stoop, the boastedforce of will be turned aside, the proud spirit be broken and humbled tothe dust, the race be lost to the swift and the battle go against thestrong, but the victory shall be wrested, the goal shall be attained bythe clasped hands and the bended knees, and the loving heart thatthrough good and evil has trusted steadfastly to the end.
* * * * *
I may lock the old desk now. I have told my tale; 'tis but theevery-day story of the ups and downs of life--the winnings and losingsof the game we all sit down to play. One word more, and I have done.
In the solitude of my chamber I took from its hiding-place a witheredflower; once it had been a beautiful white rose, how beautiful, howcherished, none knew so well as I. Long and steadfastly I gazed at it,conjuring up the while a vision of that wild night, with its flyingclouds and its waving fir-trees, and the mocking moonlight shiningcoldly on the gravel path, and the bitterness of that hour, thebitterness of all that had yet fallen to my lot, and so I fell asleep.And behold it seemed to be noon, midsummer-noon in a garden of flowers,hot and bright and beautiful. The
butterfly flitted in the sunshine,and the wood-pigeon mourned sweetly and sadly in the shade. Littlechildren with laughing eyes played and rolled about upon the sward, andran up, warm and eager, to offer me posies of the choicest flowers. Oneby one I refused them all, for amongst the pride of the garden there wasnone to me like my own withered rose that I had cherished so long, and Iturned away from each as it was brought me, and pressed her closer to myheart where she always lay.
Then, even as I clasped her she bloomed in her beauty once more, freshand pure and radiant as of old, steeping my very soul in fragrance, achild of earth indeed, but wafting her sweetness up to heaven.
And I awoke, and prayed that it might not be all a dream.
THE END
_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay._
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