Part 34 (2/2)
”Raby came out presently, and we walked home, still silent. The dignity of his office was upon him; his lips were moving, perhaps in pet.i.tion for the dying girl.
”When we reached the house he went up to his room. The evening came. I got out our German books--Raby and I were studying together--and presently he joined me. In his absence of mind he had forgotten all about the ball, as I knew he would, and we were both absorbed in Schiller's magnificent 'Wallenstein' when Margaret entered, looking what Hugh Redmond called his 'Marguerite of Marguerites,' his pearl among women.
”Raby started and looked perplexed.
”'What, is it so late? You are dressed, Margaret, and this careless child has not commenced her toilet. Pray help her, Maggie, she will be dreadfully late.'
”Margaret gave me a wistful smile.
”'The carriage is here already,' she answered, quietly, 'and Mrs.
Montague is waiting. Crystal is not going to the ball, Raby.'
”'Not going?' He turned and looked at me, our eyes met, and then he understood.
”'Does not Margaret look lovely,' I asked in a.s.sumed carelessness, when the hall door had closed, and he came back to the room.
”For answer he took me in his arms.
”'Not half so fair as my Esther,' he said, tenderly, 'though she is not wearing her regal dress. I thank G.o.d,' and here his voice grew low and solemn. 'I thank G.o.d, Crystal, that my darling has chosen the better part that shall not be taken away from her.'”
CHAPTER XXV.
GO BACK TO RABY.
O calm grand eyes, extinguished in a storm, Blown out like lights o'er melancholy seas, Though shriek'd for by the s.h.i.+pwrecked.
O my dark!
My Cloud,--to go before me every day, While I go ever toward the wilderness, I would that you could see me bare to the soul.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
”Things went on very happily for a long time after this. The church at Sandycliffe was finished; Raby gave up his curacy, and read himself in; and then came the day when Margaret and I heard him preach.
”Shall I ever forget that day--it was Eastertide--and all that belonged to it? the last unclouded Sunday that was ever to rise upon me; the tiny flower-decked church already crowded with wors.h.i.+pers, the memorial window that Raby and Margaret had put in, sacred to the memory of their father, with its glorious colors reflected on the pavement in stains of ruby and violet; and lastly, the grave beautiful face of the young vicar as he looked round upon his little flock for the first time, his eyes resting for a moment as though in silent benediction on the vicarage seat.
”Were I to tell you what I thought of that sermon, you might think my praise partial, but there were many there, Hugh Redmond among them, who commented afterward on the eloquence and vivid power of the preacher. Hugh Redmond had accompanied us to church, for he and Margaret had been engaged some months, and they were always together.
He declared that that sermon had made a deep impression on him.
”Many were affected that day by Raby's deep searching eloquence, but none more so than a lady who sat alone under the pulpit, and who drew down her c.r.a.pe veil that no one might see her tears.
”I knew her well; she was a childless widow who had lately come to live at Sandycliffe in a pretty cottage about half a mile from the Grange, and with whom Margaret had become very intimate--a fair gentle-looking woman who had gone through much trouble, and who wished to devote her life to good works; and as I looked at her now, my own eyes misty with sympathy, did I ever imagine that the time was fast approaching when I should wrong her with the bitterest hatred, and even seek to lift my hand against her.
”And yet you were one of G.o.d's dear saints, Mona!
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