Part 49 (1/2)

'It may be when the midnight Is heavy upon the land, And the black waves lying dumbly Along the sand; When the moonless night draws close, And the lights are out in the house; When the fires burn low and red, And the watch is ticking loudly Beside the bed: Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch, Still your heart must wake and watch In the dark room, For it may be that at midnight I will come.'

When the Master does come, she will be always found waiting. Has not my darling kept her lamp burning all her life long? Surely when the Bridegroom cometh, she will enter into the kingdom.

”I cannot tell how soon it will be. I have no hope now of her being given back to me. It is a solemn waiting. Oh! my Esmeralda, when you hear that the hour _has_ come, pity, pray for her unutterably desolate son.”

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

”_Feb. 17._--There has been an unexpected rally. Two days ago, when I was quite hopeless and she lay motionless, unconscious of earth, Dr. Taylor said, '_Wait_, you can do nothing: if this trance is to end fatally, you can do nothing to arrest it; but it may still prove to be an extraordinary effort of Nature to recruit itself.'

And truly, at eight o'clock yesterday morning, after sixty hours of trance, she suddenly opened her eyes, smiled and spoke naturally. I had just left the room, when Lea called me back--'She is talking to me.' I could scarcely believe it; yet, when I went in, there my darling sat in her bed, with a sweet look of restored consciousness and returning power.

”It was like a miracle.

”She remembers nothing now of her illness. She does not think she has suffered. During the last night she says she was constantly saying the seventy-first Psalm. Almost the first thing she said after rallying was, 'I have not been alone: your Uncle Penrhyn and your Aunt Kitty[257] have been here, supporting me all through the night.'

”Our nice simple little landlady had just been to the church to pray for her, and, coming back to find her restored, believes it is in answer to her prayers.

”I did not know what the agony of the last three days was till they were over. While they lasted, I thought of nothing but to be bright for _her_, that she might _only_ see smiles, to prevent Lea from giving way, and to glean up every glance and word and movement; but to-day I feel much exhausted.”

_To_ MY SISTER.

”_Pau, Feb. 21._--My darling has been mercifully restored to me for a little while--a few days' breathing s.p.a.ce; and yet I could not count upon this even while it lasted; I could not dwell upon hope, I could not look forward--the frail frame is so _very_ frail. I cannot think she is given to me for long: I only attempt to store up the blessings of each day now against the long desolate future.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAU.[258]]

”Last Sunday week she fell into her trance. It lasted between sixty and seventy hours. During this time she was almost unconscious. She knew me, she even said 'Dear' to me once or twice, and smiled most sweetly as she did so, but otherwise she was totally unconscious of all around her, of day and night, of the sorrow or anxiety of the watchers, of pain or trouble. A serene peace overshadowed her, a heavenly sweetness filled her expression, and never varied except to dimple into smiles of angelic beauty, as if she were already in the company of angels.

”But for the last sixteen hours the trance was like death. Then the doctor said, 'If the pulse does not sink and if she wakes naturally, she may rally.' This happened. At eight the next morning, my darling gently awoke and was given back into life. This was Thursday, and there were three days' respite. But yesterday she was evidently failing again, and this morning, while Dr. Taylor was in the room, the trance came on again. For ten minutes her pulse ceased to beat altogether.... Since then she has lain as before--scarcely here, yet not gone--quite happy--_between_ heaven and earth.

”I believe now that if my darling is taken I can give thanks for the exceeding blessedness of this end.

”Meantime it is again a silent watching, and, as I watch, the solemn music of the hymns that my darling loves comes back to me, and I repeat them to myself. Now these verses are in my mind:--

'Have we not caught the smiling On some beloved face, As if a heavenly sound were wiling The soul from our earthly place?-- The distant sound and sweet Of the Master's coming feet.

We may clasp the loved one faster, And plead for a little while, But who can resist the Master?

And we read by that brightening smile That the tread we may not fear Is drawing surely near.'

And then, in the long watches of the night, all the golden past comes back to me--how as a little child I played round my darling in Lime Wood--how the flowers were our friends and companions--how we lived in and for one another in the bright Lime garden: of her patient endurance of much injustice--of her sweet forgiveness of all injuries--of her loving grat.i.tude for all blessings--of her ever sure upward-seeking of the will and glory of G.o.d: and my eye wanders to the beloved face, lined and worn but glowing with the glory of another world, and while giving thanks for thirty years of past blessing, shall I not also give thanks that thus--not through the dark valley, but through the suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d--my mother is entering upon her rest?

”G.o.d will give me strength: I feel quite calm. I can think only how to soothe, how to cheer, how to do everything for her.”

”_Feb. 26._--It is still the same; we are still watching. In the hundred and twelfth hour of her second trance, during which she had taken no nourishment whatever, my mother spoke again, but it was only for a time. You will imagine what the long watchings of this death-like slumber have been, what the strange visions of the past which have risen to my mind in the long, silent nights, as, with locked doors (for the French would insist that all was over), I have hovered over the pillow on which she lies as if bound by enchantment. Now comes before me the death-bed scene of S. Vincent de Paul, when, to the watchers lamenting together over his perpetual stupor, his voice suddenly said, 'It is but the brother that goes before the sister.' Then, as the shadows lighten into dawn, Norman Macleod's story of how he was watching by the death-bed of his beloved one in an old German city, and grief was sinking into despair, when, loud and solemn, at three in the morning, echoed forth the voice of the old German watchman giving the hours in the patriarchal way--'Put your trust in the _Divine Three_, for after the darkest night cometh the break of day.'

”Last night the trance seemed over. All was changed. My sweetest one was haunted by strange visions; to her excited mind and renewed speech, every fold of the curtains was a spirit, every sound an alarm. For hours I sat with her trembling hands in mine, soothing her with the old hymns that she loves. To a certain extent, however, there is more hope, more of returning power. Is it a superst.i.tion to think that she began to revive when in the churches at Holmhurst, Hastings, Hurstmonceaux, Alton, and Pau prayers (and in many cases how earnest) were being offered up for her restoration?

”_Two_ P.M.--My darling has been sitting up in bed listening to sweet voices, which have been singing to her; but they were no earthly voices which she heard.

”_Ten_ P.M.--She has just declared that she sees Ruth Harmer (a good, sweet girl she used to visit, who died at Hurstmonceaux) standing by her bedside. 'It is Ruth Harmer--look at Ruth Harmer,'