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Chapter XXVI.

Yet again, O reader, must we refer you to our private chronological table. We found on previous study, that within a short distance of one another, two events took place in almost the same hour—namely, a happy wedding, and a tragic accident. But New Zealand is not the only country in the world; neither are marriages and racecourse catastrophes the only events that can happen on the one day: and, as we study our table more carefully, we find another event in another land, happening on the same date, and in almost the same hour. I daresay you are wondering why I should be flitting about from one new scene to another; and why I do not take up the leading chain of our narrative, and travel along in a smooth regular track. I will explain. Because life is not always, nay, it is never, alone and solitary, and this is the true history of a life. Every life has its complicated environments. Every life has ancestors dating back to Adam. Every life is a small part of another; and itself becomes another's, or several others', whole. How many years may a life live on earth? When it is twenty years old, has it passed through and become acquainted with as much and as many of its environments as it has passed through and become acquainted with at the age of thirty, sixty? Yet those environments existed years and years before the life became aware of their existence. Tributaries may have their beginning from the same standard river. They may flow in the same direction for miles and miles; but a strip page 314of land divides them, and they, those waters from the one source, do not encounter one another, know not of one another's existence, until they meet at the confluence. Again, is it not possible that each tributary may have tributaries of its own, starting from various and opposite sources, but all running in the one direction, and all meeting in the two tributaries, borne down to the confluence, united, and made acquainted as aforesaid. The onward, united course to the one great ocean we have nothing to do with. That is not for the pages of this book—perhaps not for the pages of this world's book. This, then, my friend, is my reason for flitting about from one scene to another. I am introducing you to the tributaries. It is just about here they meet. Presently I will show you the confluence. In the meantime you must learn about the different waters, that when they become united, you will have no difficulty in anatomizing their various shades. Otherwise the Great would lose half its Greatness—the Depth would be robbed of its Shadows—The contour of that Wonderful Hand beneath, wielding, slowly silently surely, wielding the whole, would not be seen.

Similar, too, my friend, is my reason for going through the three great introductions together. Because it is just about here the life discovered it was a part of another, or others; and that, it in itself, became another's whole, or several others' whole. Although, as you probably know, that life was neither thirty or sixty. You must remember we began very young. As is often the case with llfe; a few ordinary, unconscious, unfelt, forward steps of time; then a rushing together of every particle; a crash; a mighty whirl of melodious echoes; and then a soft, steady continuation of that united onward flow. Mark well these words, O reader; dip beneath and find the meaning thereof. They are the thought expressions of your own life's plan—page 315the symbols and calculations of your mystic consolation—the groundwork of your Ark.

As I said before, New Zealand is not the only country in the world. That indicates a voyage to another country. Come, fasten Mercury's wings on your feet. Pshaw! ye have wings of your own. Many people call the fastening on of these wings "Thought Voyage." I call it "Transhipped Incarnate Senses." Thought voyage! Why the whole being drops down upon that foreign soil; every faculty mingles with that foreign people. Your manner—nay, your very accent—is lighted at their torch. You bathe in foreign sunshine, and fall asleep in foreign moon-light. Can such be simply "Thought Voyage?" If so, you would hear the whirr of that wheel by your side; you would sing while you feast; you would be lost between the two lights. Oh, no; the thoughts are not the only voyagers. The wings are fastened to the feet, and the whole being, the incarnate senses, is winged to that foreign land. Then to the foreign land we speed—the foreign land of Scotland. It is a parting scene we contemplate, a parting of mother and son, and it is on the thronging Glasgow wharf. The boat lies low upon the water; and seems waiting for the touch on her life-spring, to rise, and with one great wave of her mighty arm, sweep her living freight from her decks, on to the shores of their colonial destination. The phantom finger draws near and hovers over the life-spring; and from how to stern, through that huge vessel, runs an awakening shudder.

"O my boy, my boy!" cried the pale mother, straining the tall form of her eldest son to her sorrowing heart, while the tears flow down her cheeks. "My boy, my boy, be brave, and strong, and good. If we are to meet no more on earth, let ns meet Above. Remember and deliver faith-page 316fully all I have entrusted unto your care. And, O! when you see those relatives in that far off country, tell them one heart, that loved their beloved, is sharing with them the pain of a bereavement."

The young man bends from his height and kisses the weeping woman. "I shall be your faithful son, my mother," he says in his deep, earnest tones. "I can promise nothing higher. But," and for her sake he tried to speak lightly; "but, mother, never before have you been so distressed at my journeying. I shall come back in less than a year."

"My heart tells me you are following my cousin's foot-steps. Sad memories arise and open the once dried font of my tears. Those who leave the Homeland seldom return," said the mother, sadly.

"Because they have not a dear loving mother, praying for them here." But the chains began to rattle, and the hovering finger grew closer to the life spring.

"Good-bye, mother. True. Noble. Heaven guard the qualities you have bequeathed into me, your son; Heaven grant you a rich harvest ingathering."

"Good-bye, my boy. God watch over you."

One last close embrace, one fervent kiss, and mother and son were sundered. The phantom finger touched the spring, the vessel leapt forward; across the water they gazed into one another's eyes, they faded from one another's vision. The mother turned away (proud and graceful even in sorrow) to weep alone, and in the silence of her chamber. Look at her as she paces up and down; her flowing black silk robes sweeping over the soft carpet; her tall form drawn up to the full height of her majestic stature; her hands—white, exquisitely shaped, purple veined—clasped before her; her face, smooth and soft, and perfectly chiselled; her rich, abundant, waving grey hair drawn back from her thoughtful page 317brow, and fastened in a massive knot at the back of her Grecian shaped head; her eyes, clear, limpid, shining—at times all pupils, now grey, misty, and full of a double sorrow. Oh, as she rises before me, and steps through the pen and paper of my manuscript, I think of the mother of Jesus. It is not often one sees such perfect symmetry in the aged, and when once seen, never forgotten—never wholly out of the mind. Time had not worked with her wasting hand, sorrow had not ploughed with her double-furrow. The grey locks were silven, were soft and misty like the halo round the moon; the mouth, once weak and pouting, was firm, and sweet, and peaceful; and the big grey eyes were steady and shining, and full of a hidden expression; time and sorrow had taken from them all foolish languishing; and her stately step had grown in stateliness with the constant tread of a stately mind. In short, this woman of the silent chamber—this woman so strangely in keeping with her turreted, stone built home—was a perfect type of that fine old Hebrew text: "Strength and honour are her clothing, above rubies her value."

Mark well this woman, for by and by you may be requested to trace in the matron some lineaments of the maid. But turn now, and study the "Mother's boy," the son. He stands upon the deck, and waves farewell to his native land. Who stood just so many years back? And whose footsteps is he following? Many have stood thus, and many have gone before. Aye! but they are the many of a different whole; they are parts, and they become the wholes, of different parts. We have nothing to do with them. They are the tributaries of different rivers. Others may follow up their flow, perhaps, we, even, will go back and pick up their stray parts, and piece them together; but for the present, one whole and its environments, one river and its tributaries, sufficeth us. Who stood just so page 318many years back? Whose footsteps is he following? Walter Main stood just so many years back; and it is Walter Main's footsteps, Walter Main Thornton is tracing. Can you guess now of the relationship between the "Matron and the maid?" We leave in your hands the riddle; and once more putting on our winged shoes, will return to our native land.—As we, with joyful hearts, near our beloved Island, a faint breeze is wafted toward us; a faint breeze, scented with the awful but fascinating scent of that recent tragedy.—A soft white bed, and a motionless, mangled form.

The day was just beginning to break, or rather it had broken; but what a breaking! The very heart stands still to behold; how then can the lips move to explain. But we said it had broken. Ah, then it is past, and we can look back and explain, for our hearts are released from the thraldom of its breaking. Yet, why should the breaking of day paralyse our speech, when in the rich blaze of its retiring our faculties are free, and burning lambent? I hardly know. But there is a degree beyond even the empyrean of light—it is the empyrean of shadow. And these also are the degrees of our rising and our resting. It is the wonderful empyrean of the shadow which paralyses our faculties, and makes us solemn, and hushed, in the light of the Soul's Great Dawn. Does not the earth—our part of the earth, for after all some part beholds the ineffaceable sun—gather unto herself Greater Grandeur, Mightier Majesty, more Awing Dignity, by stepping out of the dark folds of her Hereditary Night? What wonder that the shadows, from that Great Mystery into which for a few hours she had been plunged, hang over her surface, and linger in the hollows of her chiselled form. What wonder that the Contour of her vast and billowy Dream is deflected against the sky. What wonder that the page 319counterdeflection awes our senses, and holds our souls spellbound. Even now, when the first great greeting is past, we are beggared for expression. We can only throw up our hands, and cry, "Darkness became Dawn." But the dawn is passing—The Mighty Inexpressible Dawn,—and the day draws near, and unlocks our chains.

A bright playful sunbeam tips the edges of a frosted window pane, and shooting across the silent room, lights up by its cheerful presence, the depressed atmosphere, and kisses the pale lips of the sufferer. Outside, the lark springs up from its lowly bed, and soaring into the heavens, pours forth its morning song to its Creator; little heeding the ungrateful indifferent audience beneath; happy and thankful in the employment of the gifts of its Great Giver. Even the trees, the flowers, the springs, clap their hands and rejoice in the sunshine, and call to sluggard man to arise from the dull clods of Carnal Sleep, and to learn the science of Spiritual Awaking; promising as a reward, to infuse into his nature the sweet perfume of their "Peace on earth, and good will toward man."

There is no movement of the almost lifeless figure stretched beneath that white coverlet; nothing but the watchful eyes betray any signs of life. "What does this unnatural stillness indicate? a dull reckless indifference? or a superhuman endurance of pain?" Alas! for that fatal act of steeplechase riding. Too plainly told of excruciating agony, the clenched teeth, the compressed lips, the distorted brow, the livid hue. Save an occasional closing of the eyelids when the pain was at its highest, there had never once moved a muscle of that mangled form since if was carried off the stage—racecourse, I mean—and brought into its last earthly abode. Presently the door opens, or at least, opens more widely, for it always stood a little ajar, and a young girl walks in. She is a privileged person page 320as the early visiting hour indicates. But then she was so caressing, so sweet and cheerful, so full of sympathy for the poor sufferers, and so helpful to the nurses, that the very ice-bergs would open out and let her pass through into the beautiful emerald sea beyond; and nurses are by no means icebergs. So this young girl, this nursling of nature, wandered in and out, and did what she pleased, which was always what was useful and good. But in these visitations something else prompted, her besides her own inclination, perhaps two other things: A pale yearning look in the Home-land; and in far away China, the vision of a face not unlike her own, ministering unto the spiritual ailments of a swathy-faced, black-eyed, plaited-haired and bearded people. It may be in the mists by that figure's side she pictured her own slight form. Were they not both working "For Father's Sake?"

Fresh and sweet as the pure morning air she had but quitted, was this young girl as she stood by the sufferer's bed, and gazed long and earnestly down upon the haggard distorted face. But why did the eyes of the invalid close as if this sweet presence, those pitying eyes, were giving him torture? And why were the hands of the caressing girl, more caressing, more tender than usual, as she stroked the dark bair back from the clammy brow, murmuring the while, "My poor, poor brother." But her caresses added torture to torture, and she saw it and wondered. The eyelids were locked now as firmly as the mouth, and words and caresses were apparently useless. So turning to leave, the fair face bent over the deathly, and the fair sweet spirit hovered around the warring, tortured one. "Forget the past," she whispered "save where it lightens the future. Oh Albert, let not those by-gone memories interfere with my usefulness to you now, in these sad, sad moments of your need." She was gone; the while-robed figure had vanished; but page 321the echo of her footsteps remained; and the breath of her spirit lingered about the penitent's heart.

In the afternoon the same white-robed figure is seated beside an open window, and gazing across an open sea. She is idle; at least, her hands are, for her thoughts are very busy. But presently a small boy walks up the gravelled path beneath her window, and she looks down to see and surmise. The door bell rings; steps on the polished floor of the hall; voices; then steps on the stairs; shadows; a tap on her door; a voice, "A note for you, Miss Main;" and the steps and the tap and the voices are silent once more.

Nellie, for she this white-robed figure is, tears open the envelope and reads the few firmly-penned, pointed words.

"St. Andrew's Hospital.

Dear Miss Main.

A dying man wishes to see you. We do not think he will live through the night. Come as soon as possible.

Yours in haste,

Sister Dora."

Nellie folded the note and thought. She looked at her watch. Some previous appointment demanded her immediate attention. She fell on her knees, and for a few minutes there was perfect stillness, save for the gentle rise and fall of the snowy lace on the pure young bosom. In that brief space of time she was atuning her vital energies to meet the coming contest; though for the matter of that, those energies were always taught. Then she rose, feeling strong, and calm, and strangely happy. She changed her white dress for a neat black one—black and white were the only colours she would wear—and smoothing back her loose tumbled hair, went down stairs. But the important task was mechanically performed, for the shadow of two page 322deep blue eyes haunted the young girl's thoughts. Yet not as they appeared that day did she dream of them; but as they appeared many many days before, when, with a strange burning in their depths, they flashed into her own an unacquiescent acquiescence to her refusal to permit their owner accompany her home from that happy picnic ground so long ago. As soon as she could get away, Nellie, after letting her aunt see the note, made her way to the hospital. Half-an-hour afterwards she was in possession of two secrets, one intimately connected with herself, the other the sparkling diamond of which we have already spoken, and which revealed to the observer's gaze, the treasure mine filled with noble thoughts; both of which had been dug from the slums of evil influence.

As the end of mortality's victim drew near, and the mortal voice failed, the deep blue eyes grew deeper by reason of its increased immortality, and over the whole face spread the glorious hallowed light of that Empyrean Dawning Shadow. The same Setting sun of one country, is the Rising of another. There is no break, only a bend; a bend soft, smooth, and beautifully arched: and, although the sky be blue in mid-day and black at night, the rosy streaks, the wild pencilled golden fleeces, the melting transparent purple-tinted greys, and the indigo depths, of This Life's Setting Sky, are the continued radii of the Next Life's Rising—the last heart beat being the focus.

The hallowed light grew limpid and shining, and the face of Albert Maurice was earthly no more. The soft wave of his guardian angel's wing brushed away the fluttering breath; and on the bosom of that Ethereal Calm, the soul was borne back to its Creator, its Provider, its Sanctifier; borne back to its God. They closed the eyes; they straightened the limbs, they folded the hands; they left the body. But one girl returned for a last sad look. She drew down the page 323sheet, and pressed a long lingering kins on the still warm lips; then covering the rigid lifeless form, she raised her dark eyes to heaven—hot lights burning in their dry depths—and prayed that her own father might be first to clasp the hand of this quiet sleeper, and lead him in. "His ways on earth had not always been the ways of God, and the poor trembling soul might, on its first entrance into those glorious lights, feel strange without the warm pressure of a once brother sinner's hand." Then she went away; and the dead was alone.

Oh, thou who bearest away that lifeless dust, do so with tenderness and love. Remember, be was "Somebody's darling"—"Sombody's boy." It may not hurt him if you refuse to do so. It is only a body perhaps; a body from which the soul has fled; and therefore your careless handling, your rough words, will have none effect. But O! we like to touch with reverence, the caskets which once enclosed our priceless treasures. We like to treat a dead form with reverence. After all, which of you living beings could make, or annihilate, that body?

Thus rested Albert Maurice, the treacherous friend, who for his own selfish gain, sought to ruin a comrade: and who, when his victim attempted to extricate himself from those hateful toils, smiled sarcastically; and jeeringly prescribed him a dose he himself drank, but found incapable of cure. What we mean, you are soon to understand. Yet do not think too hardly of the dead my reader. Nay! think not hardly, think kindly. Which of us if robbed of our borrowed virtues, would disclose a perfectly unselfish life? The heart is sealed in selfishness, and it is only by careful prayer, by continual practise, and by unfaltering heart searches, that the life can appear (not wholly become) clothed in unselfish gain. As I contemplate on this life, and put the pieces together—for mind you I know the page 324end which contains the embryo of the beginning—I think of that blessed parable of the "wandering-boy." Albert Maurice bad demanded his portion of freedom; he had wandered away to a foreign land, which, after all was not foreign, for his Father's eye was upon him: had fallen low, very low; had risen; had returned; had been met and embraced and kissed by a loving Father; had been borne home midst great rejoicings. The very straying endearing him to his outraged Parent. Aye; and giving him an added value in his fellow servant's eyes; for it takes a strong brave man to truly repent.

How thankful we should be, that, in the early years of his life, when our hearts were sore and smarting at the thought of his sinful practises, we left his case with God; else how could we, with clear conscience, stand bare headed beside his mouldering dust.

Man is ever in need of solemn warning concerning his eagerness to step into the Judgment seat. In our narrow range, and imperfect sight, we would have assigned to that wanton sinner a place with the Unrighteous. And to prevent further contamination of the world, we would have hastened his Shade into Charon's battered lighter; with our own hands pushing off the boat, that the weedy wharf of Styx might not hinder the swift deliverence into the state chamber of Persephone. Thank Heaven, there is a wiser judge than the fool man. A, mightier range than human perception. Beneath the Kingdom is the Kingdom's God who sees and feels; and knows whom to spare until the eleventh hour. Oh, let the earth rejoice; let the trees clap their hands; let the whole nation sing praises; let man dance and shout; let them make a mighty noise, for in all things "The Lord reigneth, Blessed be our Lord."