Part 26 (1/2)

”He is in G.o.d's Hands, dearest!” returned her husband; ”and in better Hands than ours.”

Well might the thoughts of the lady Edith be concentrated on the crisis before her. She had borne, with a mother's wounded heart, the separation of three years, and now it was a question of a few short hours whether she should ever see him again or not. Now fancy painted him wounded, nay dying, on the bloodstained field; now it impelled her to sally forth towards the scene, as though her feeble strength could bear her to him.

Now she sought the chapel, and found refuge in prayer. She had found refuge many many hours of that eventful day, but especially since Redwald had borne the news of the imminent battle.

At length the long suspense was ended. Redwald was seen riding at full speed towards the castle, followed by the long-expected messenger.

”Victory! victory!” he cried; ”the rebels are defeated; the king shall enjoy his own.”

”But Elfric, my son! my son!”

”Is safe: and will be here in a day or two, perhaps tomorrow.”

”Thank G.o.d!” and the overcharged heart found relief in tears--happy tears of joy.

The messenger who followed Redwald brought detailed accounts of the event. According to his statements it appeared that the king had broken through the hostile entrenchment, and had scattered their forces in the first attack. The messenger particularly a.s.serted that he had seen Elfric, and had been charged with the fondest messages for home, where the youth hoped to be in a few days at the latest, seeing there was no longer an enemy to fear.

The hearts of all present were filled with thankfulness and joy.

”Come, my beloved Edith,” said the old thane. ”Let us go first to thank G.o.d;” and they went together to the chapel which had witnessed so many earnest prayers that day--now, they believed, so fully answered.

All gloom and despondency seemed removed, and Ella went forth to walk alone in the woods, to meditate in silence on the goodness of G.o.d.

Nearly each evening this had been his habit. The woods, he said, were G.o.d's first temples, and when alone he best raised his heart from nature to nature's G.o.d.

His thoughts were happy that evening: his first-born boy would be restored to him, and, like the father in the Gospels, he longed to embrace the prodigal, and to tell him that all was forgiven. But he schooled himself to patience, and many a fervent thanksgiving did he offer as he wandered amidst the gra.s.sy glades.

But he was more weary than usual with the toil and anxiety of the day, and shortly seated himself upon a mossy bank beneath an aged oak. The trees grew thickly behind and before him, on each side of the glade, which terminated at no great distance in the heart of the pathless forest, so that no occasional wayfarer would be likely to pa.s.s that way.

There he reposed, until a gentle slumber stole over him and buried all his senses in oblivion.

The day was nearly spent, the light clouds which still reflected the sun's ruddy glow were fast fading into a grey neutral tint, and darkness was approaching. Once a timid deer pa.s.sed along the glade, and started as it beheld the sleeping form, then went on, but started yet more violently as it pa.s.sed a thicket on the opposite side. The night breeze had arisen and was blowing freshly; but still the old man slept on, as though he slept that sleep from which none shall awaken until the archangel's trump.

Meanwhile they grew uneasy at the hall over his prolonged absence, and at length Alfred started to find his father, beginning to fear that the excitement of the day had been too great for him, and that he might need a.s.sistance. He knew the favourite glade wherein the aged thane was wont to walk, and the mossy bank whereon he frequently reposed, so he lost no time, but bent his steps directly for the spot.

As he drew near, he saw his father lying on the bank beneath the oak as still in sound sleep, and marvelled that the chilly air of the evening had not awoke him. He was not wont to sleep thus soundly. He approached closely, but his steps did not arouse the sleeper. He now bent over him, and put his hand on his shoulder affectionately and lovingly.

”Father, awake,” he said; ”the night is coming on; you will take cold.”

But there was no answering voice, and the sleeper stirred not. Alfred became seriously alarmed, but his alarm changed suddenly into dread certainty. The feathered shaft of an arrow met his eye, dimly seen in the darkness, as it stuck in the left side of the sleeping Ella.

Sleeping, indeed. But the sleep was eternal.

Horrified at the sight, refusing to believe his eyes, the son first continued his vain attempts to awake his sire, then fell on his knees, and wrung his hands while he cried piteously, ”O father, speak to me!”

as if he could not accept the fact that those lips would never salute him more. The moonbeams fell on that calm face, calm as if in sleep, without a spasm of pain, without the contraction of a line of the countenance. The weapon had pierced through the heart; death had been instantaneous, and the sleeper had pa.s.sed from the sleep of this earth to that which is sweetly called ”sleep in the Lord,” without a struggle or a pang.

His heart full of joy and thanksgiving, he had gone to carry his tribute of praise to the very throne of G.o.d.

When the first paroxysm of pain and grief was over, the necessity of summoning some further aid, of bearing the sad news to his home, pressed itself upon the mind of Alfred, and he took his homeward road alone, as if he hardly knew what he was doing, but simply obeyed instinct. Arrived there, he could not tell his mother or sister; he only sought the chamberlain and the steward, and begged them to come forth with him, and said something had happened to his father. They went forth.

”We must carry something to bear him home,” he said, and they took a framework of wood upon which they threw some bearskins.