Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike home, "so funny;" she had relished most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children.
Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.
CHAPTER XXV.
Behold, with pearls they glittering stand, Thy peaceful gates to all expand, By grace and strength divinely shed, Each mortal thither may be led; Who, kindled by Christ's love, will dare All earthly sufferings now to bear. By many a salutary stroke, By many a weary blow, that broke, Or polished, with a workman's skill, The stones that form that glorious pile; They all are fitly framed to lie In their appointed place on high. Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church.
The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.
The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May's door.
Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real- -as if she would fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an excuse for looking at Margaret's countenance, and drinking in her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George's carriage, and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of Ethel's delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, "In spirit with us!" then ran down and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.
"Flora dear," said Margaret, "do you dislike having the window opened?"
Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister's scruples, that she liked the air. "You always spoiled me," said Margaret fondly. "Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here," she added, as Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, "It is like the old times to have you here taking care of me."
"Very unlike them in some ways," said Flora.
"It has been a great renewal of still older times," said Margaret, "to have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is so like having mamma here," and she looked in her sister's face as she spoke.
Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but, suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret's frame; she raised her hand and lifted her head, with an eager "Hark!"
Flora could hear nothing.
"The bells--his bells!" said Margaret, all one radiant look of listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.
It ceased. "Alan! Alan!" said she. "It is enough! I am ready!"
The somewhat alarmed look on Flora's face recalled her, and, smiling, she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, "Let us follow the service. It will be best for us both."
Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost whispering, till she came to, "If they return to Thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen, and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place--"
Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, "Margaret! Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very, very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me--and that I may see my child again!"
"My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up. Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!"
The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of Margaret's words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret's hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken.
Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered feeling--could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever, separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel's spirit sank for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving; yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind, and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been so happy--not in the sense of the finished work--no, she had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to prepare strength for what may be in store.