The Lion's Whelp. Barr Amelia E.
and you know not yet what that means, Jane. All day I have been saying – no matter what my hands were doing – let this cup pass me, Lord. If your father fell! – if John, or Cymlin, or Tonbert were left on the battle-field! Oh, Jane! Jane!" and the terror that had haunted her all day and shown itself in an irrepressible fretfulness, now sought relief in tears and sobbing. Jane kissed and comforted the sorrowful woman. She led her up-stairs, and helped her into the sanctuary of sleep by many brave and hopeful words; and it so happened that she finally uttered a promise that had once been given to the anxious wife and mother, as a sacred secret token of help and deliverance. And when she heard the gracious words dropping from Jane's lips she said – "That is sufficient. Once, when I was in great fear for your father, the Lord gave me that assurance; now He sends it by you. I am satisfied. I will lay me down and sleep; the words will sing in my heart all night long," and she said them softly as Jane kissed her – "'From the beginning of our journey, the Lord delivered us from every enemy.'"
Then Jane went to her own room. It was a large, low room on the morning side of the house, and it was an illustration of the girl – a place of wide, free spaces, and no furniture in it that was for mere ornament – a small tent bed draped with white dimity, a dressing-table equally plain and spotless, a stand on which lay her Bible, a large oak chair of unknown age, and two or three chairs of the simplest form made of plaited rushes and willow wands. Some pots of sweet basil and geranium were in the casements, and the place was permeated with a peace and perfume that is indescribable.
To this sweet retreat Jane went with eager steps. She closed the door, slipped the iron bolt into its place, and then lit a rush candle. The light was dim, but sufficient. In it she disrobed herself, and loosened the long braids of pale brown hair; then she put out the candle and let the moonlight flood the room, make whiter the white draperies, and add the last ravishing touch of something heavenly, and something apart from the sphere of our unrest and sorrow.
For some time she sat voiceless, motionless. Was she dreaming of happiness, or learning to suffer? Neither, consciously; she was "waiting" on the Eternal, waiting for that desire God Himself forms in the soul – that secret voice that draws down mercies and spiritual favours which no one knoweth but they who receive them. And Jane was well aware that it was only in the serene depth of a quiescent will she could rise above the meanness of fear and the selfishness of hope, and present that acceptable prayer which would be omnipotent with God: – omnipotent, because so wonderfully aided by all those strange things and secret decrees and unrevealed transactions which are beyond the stars; but which all combine in ministry with the praying soul.
That night, however, she could not escape the tremor and tumult of her own heart, and the sorrowful apprehension of her mother. Peace was far from her. She sat almost breathless, she rose and walked softly to and fro, she stood with uplifted thoughts in the moonlit window – nothing brought her clarity and peace of mind. And when at length she fell into the sleep of pure weariness, it was haunted by dreams full of turmoil and foreshadowings of calamity. She awoke weary and unrefreshed, and with a sigh opened a casement and looked at the outer world again. How good it seemed! In what gray, wild place of sorrow and suffering had she been wandering? She did not know its moors and bogs, and the noise of its black, rolling waters. How different were the green terraces of Swaffham! the sweet beds of late lilies and autumn flowers! the rows of tall hollyhocks dripping in the morning mist! A penetrating scent of marjoram and lavender was in the air, a sense, too, of ended summer, in spite of the lilies and the stately hollyhocks. She came down with a smile, but her mother's face was wan and tired.
"I hoped I should have had a good dream last night, Jane," she said sadly, "but I dreamt nothing to the purpose. I wonder when we shall have a letter. I do not feel able to do anything to-day. I'm not all here. My mind runs on things far away from Swaffham. I am going to let some of the work take its own way for a week. In all conscience, we should have news by that time."
So the anxious days went by for a week, and there was still no word. Then Jane went over to de Wick, hoping that the Earl might have news from his son, which would at least break the voiceless tension of their fears. But the Earl was in the same state – restless, perplexed, wistfully eager concerning the situation of the opposing armies. In their mutual sorrowful conjectures they forgot their political antipathies, and a loving apprehension drew them together; they could not say unkind things, and Jane was even regretful for her cool attitude towards Matilda on her last visit to Swaffham. They drew close to each other, they talked in low voices of the absent, they clasped hands as they walked together through the lonely park in the autumn afternoon. They also agreed that whoever had news first should send a swift messenger to the other, no matter what the tidings should be. When they parted, Jane kissed her friend, a token of love she had not given her for a long time, and Matilda was so affected by this return of sympathy that she covered her face with her hands and wept. "Oh, Jane!" she said, "I have been so lonely!"
And as Jane answered her with affectionate assurances, there came into her heart a sudden anticipation of intelligence. Without consideration, with no purpose of mere encouragement, she said confidently – "There is some one on the way. I seem to hear them coming." So they parted, and Jane brought home with her a hope which would not be put down. Her face was so bright and her voice so confident that her mother felt the influence of her spirit, and anon shared it. The night was too damp and chill for their usual bedtime walk on the terrace, but they sat together on the hearth, knitting and talking until the evening was far spent. Then Mrs. Swaffham dropped her work upon her lap, and she and Jane began their private evening exercise:
"Then said he unto me, thou art sore troubled in mind for Israel's sake; lovest thou that people better than He that made them?
"And I said, No, Lord, but of very grief have I spoken; for my reins pain me every hour, while I labour to comprehend the way of the most High, and to seek out part of His judgment.
"And he said unto me, thou canst not. And I said wherefore, Lord, whereunto was I born then? or why was not my mother's womb my grave, that I might not have seen the travail of Jacob, and the wearisome toil of the stock of Israel?
"And he said unto me, number me the things that are not yet come; gather me together the drops that are scattered abroad; make me the flowers green again that are withered.
"Open me the places that are closed, and bring me forth the winds that in them are shut up; show me the image of a voice; and then I will declare to thee the thing that thou labourest to know.
"And I said, O Lord that bearest rule; who may know these things, but he that hath not his dwelling with men?
"As for me I am unwise; how may I speak of these things whereof thou askest me?
"Then he said unto me, like as thou canst do none of these things that I have spoken of, even so canst thou not find out my judgment; or in the end, the love that I have promised unto my people."
And when the short antiphony was finished, they kissed each other a hopeful "good-night," being made strong in this – that they had put self out of their supplication, and been only "troubled in mind for Israel's sake."
All were in deep sleep when the blast of a trumpet and the trampling of a heavily-shod horse on the stones of the courtyard awakened them. Jane's quick ear detected at once the tone of triumph in the summons. She ran to her mother's room, and found her at an open window. She was calling aloud to the messenger, "Is it you, Doctor Verity?" and the answer came swift and strong, ere the question was fairly asked —
"It is I, John Verity, with the blessing of God, and good tidings."
"Get your horse to stable, Doctor, and we will be down to welcome you." The next moment the house was astir from one end to the other – bells were ringing, lights moving hither and thither, men and women running downstairs, and at the open door Mrs. Swaffham and Jane waiting for the messenger, their eager faces and shining eyes full of hope and expectation.
He kept them waiting until he had seen his weary horse attended to, then hurrying across the courtyard he clasped the hands held out in welcome, and with a blessing on his lips came into the lighted room. It was joy and strength to look at him. His bulk was like that of the elder gods; his head like an antique marble, his hazel eyes beaming, joyous, and full of that light which comes "from within." A man of large mind as well as of large stature,