St. Winifred's Part 22

"'And when on upward wing.

Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upwards I fly; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my G.o.d, to Thee, Nearer to Thee.'"

And as he murmured to himself in a soothed tone of voice these verses, and lines of "Jerusalem the Golden," and "O for a closer walk with G.o.d,"

and "Rock of Ages," the wearied brain at last found repose, and Daubeny fell asleep.

He lingered on till the end of the week. On the Sat.u.r.day he ceased to be delirious, and the lucid interval began which precedes death. It was then that he earnestly entreated to be allowed to see those school friends whose names had been so often on his lips--Power, Walter, and Henderson. The boys, who had daily and eagerly inquired for him, entered with a feeling of trembling solemnity the room of sickness. The near presence of death filled them with an indescribable awe, and they felt desolate at the approaching loss of a friend whom they loved so well.

"I sent to say good-bye," he said, smiling sweetly. "You must not cry and grieve for me. I am happier than I ever felt before. Good-bye, Walter. It's for a long, long, long time, but not for ever. Good-bye, my dear old Flip--naughty fellow to cry so, when I am happy; and when I am gone, Flip, think of me sometimes, and of talks we've had together, and take your side manfully for G.o.d and Christ. Good-bye, Power, my best friend; we meant to be confirmed together, you know, but G.o.d has ordered it otherwise." And then he whispered low--

"'Lord shall we come? come yet again?

Thy children ask one blessing more; To come not now alone, but then When life, and death, and time are o'er; Then, then, to come, O Lord, and be _Confirmed in heaven--confirmed by Thee_.'

"O Power, that line fills me with hope and joy; think of it for me when I am dead," and his voice trembled with emotion as he again murmured, "'Confirmed in heaven--confirmed by Thee.' I'm afraid I'm too weak to talk any more. O, what a long, long good-bye it will be--for years, and years, and years; to think that when you have gone out of the room we shall never meet in life again, and I shall never hear your pleasant voices. O Flip, you make me cry against my will by crying so. It's hard to say, but it must be said at last. Good-bye, G.o.d bless you, with all my heart." He laid his hand on their heads as they bent over him, and once mere whispering the last "Good-bye," turned away his face, and made the pillow wet with his warm tears.

The sound of his mother's sobs attracted him. "Ah, mother, darling, we are alone now; you will stay with me till I die. I am tired."

"I feared that their visit would excite you too much, my child."

"O no, mother; I couldn't bear to die without seeing them, I loved them so much. Mother, will you sing to me a _little_--sing me my favourite hymn."

She began in a low, sweet voice,--

"My G.o.d, my Father, while I stray, Far from my home in life's rough way, O teach me from my heart to say, Thy will be done, Thy will be--"

She stopped, for sobs choked her voice. "I am sorry I cannot, Johnny.

But I cannot bear to think how soon we must part."

"Only for a short time, mother, a short time. I said a long time just now, but _now_ it looks to me quite short, and I shall be with G.o.d. I see it all now so clearly. Do you remember those lines--

"'The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through c.h.i.n.ks that time has made.'

"How true they are! Oh, darling mother, how very, very good you have always been to me, and I pay you with all my heart's whole love." He pressed upon her lips a long, long kiss, and said, "Good-night, darling mother. I am falling asleep, I think."

His arms relaxed their loving embrace, and glided down from her shoulder; his head fell back; the light faded from his soft and gentle eyes, and he was asleep.

Rightly he said "asleep"--the long sleep that is the sweetest and happiest in that it knows no waking here; the long sweet sleep that no evil dreams disturb; the sleep after which the eyes open upon the light of immortality, and the weary heart rests upon the bosom of its G.o.d.

Yes, Daubeny had fallen asleep.

G.o.d help thee, widowed mother; the daily endearments, the looks of living affection, the light of the boy's presence, are for thee and for thy home no more. There lies the human body of thy son; his soul is with the white-robed, redeemed, innumerable mult.i.tude in the Paradise of G.o.d.

For hours, till the light faded into darkness, as this young life had faded into death, she sat fixed in that deep grief which finds no utterance, and knows of no alleviation, with little consciousness save of the dead presence, and of the pang that benumbed her aching heart.

And outside rang the sound of games and health, and the murmur of boy-voices came to her forlorn ear. There the stream of life was flashing joyously and gloriously in the sunshine, while here, in this darkened room, it had sunk into the sands, and lost itself under the shadow of the dark boughs. But she was a Christian; and as the sweet voices of memory, and conscience, and hope, and promise whispered to her in her loneliness their angel messages, her heart melted and the tears came, and she knelt down and took the dead hand of her son in hers, and said, between her sobs, while her tear-stained eyes were turned to heaven, "O G.o.d, teach me to understand Thy will."

And through the night the great bell of the church of Saint Winifred's tolled the sound of death; and, mingled with it stroke for stroke, in long, tremulous, thrilling notes that echoed through the silent buildings, rang out the thin clear bell of Saint Winifred's School. The tones of that school-bell were usually only heard as they summoned the boys to lessons with quick and hurried beatings. How different now were the slow occasional notes--each note trembling itself out with undisturbed vibrations which quivered long upon the air--with which it told that for one at least whom it had been wont to warn, hurry was possible no longer, and there was boundless leisure now! There was a strange pulse of emotion in the hearts of the listening boys, when the sound of those two pa.s.sing bells struck upon their ears as they sat at evening work, and told them that the soul of their schoolfellow had pa.s.sed away, and that G.o.d's voice had summoned His young servant to His side.

"You hear it, Henderson?" said Walter, who sat next to him.

"Yes," answered Henderson in an awe-struck voice, "Daubeny is dead."

The rest of that evening the two boys sat silent and motionless, full of the solemn thoughts which can never be forgotten. And for the rest of that evening the deep church-bell tolled, and the shrill school-bell tolling after it, shivered out into the wintry night air its tremulous message that the soul of Daubeny had pa.s.sed away.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

FAREWELL.

"Be the day weary or be the day long At last it ringeth to even-song."

There was a very serious look on the faces of all the boys as they thronged into chapel the next morning for the confirmation service. It was a beautiful sight to see the subdued yet n.o.ble air, full at once of humility and hope, wherewith many of the youthful candidates pa.s.sed along the aisle, and knelt before the altar, and with clasped hands and bowed heads awaited the touch of the hands that blessed. As those young soldiers of Christ knelt meekly in their places, resolving with pure and earnest hearts to fight manfully in His service, and praying with child-like faith for the aid of which they felt their need, it was indeed a spectacle to recall the ideal of virtuous and Christian boyhood, and to force upon the minds of many the contrast it presented with the other too familiar spectacle of a boyhood coa.r.s.e, defiant, brutal, ignorant yet conceited, young in years but old in disobedience, in insolence, in sin.

When the good bishop, in the course of his address, alluded to Daubeny's death, there was throughout the chapel instantly that silence that can be felt--that deep, unbroken hush of expectation and emotion which always produces so indescribable an effect.

"There was one," he said, "who should have been confirmed to-day, who is not here. He has pa.s.sed away from us; he will never be present at an earthly confirmation; he is 'confirmed in heaven--confirmed by G.o.d.' I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that for that confirmation he was indeed prepared, and that he looked forward to it with some of his latest thoughts. I hear that he was pre-eminent among you for the piety, the purity, the amiability of his life and character, and his very death was caused by the intense earnestness of his desire to use aright the talents which G.o.d had entrusted to him. O! such a death of one so young yet so fit to die is far happier than the longest and most prosperous of sinful lives. Be sobered but not saddened by it. It is a proof of G.o.d's merciful and tender love that this one of your schoolfellows was taken in the clear and quiet dawn of a n.o.ble and holy life, and not some other in the scarlet blossom of precocious and deadly sin. Be not saddened therefore at the loss, but sobered by the warning. The fair, sweet, purple flower of youth falls and fades, my young brethren, under the sweeping scythe of death, no less surely than the withered gra.s.s of age. O! be ready--be ready with the girded loins and the lighted lamp-- to obey the summons of your G.o.d. Who knows for which of us next, or how soon, the bell of death may toll? Be ye therefore ready, for you know not at what day or at what hour the voice may call to you!"

The loss of a well-known companion whom all respected and many loved-- the crowding memories of school-life--the still small voice of every conscience, gave strange meaning and force to the bishop's simple words.

As they listened, many wept in silence, while down the cheeks of Walter, of Power, and of Henderson, the tears fell like summer rain.

In the evening Walter was seated thoughtfully by the fire in Power's study, while Power was writing at the table, stopping occasionally to wipe his glistening eyes.

"He was my earliest friend here," he said to Walter, almost apologetically, as he hastily brushed off the drop which had fallen and blurred the paper before him. "But I know it is selfish to be sorry,"

he added, as he pushed the paper towards Walter.

"May I read this, Power?" asked Walter.

"Yes, if you like," and he drew his chair by his, while Walter read in Power's small clear handwriting--

A Farewell.

Never more!

Like a dream when one awaketh Vanishing away; Like a billow when it breaketh Scattered into spray; Like a meteor's paling ray, Such is man, do all he can;-- Nothing that is fair can stay.

Sorrow staineth, man complaineth.

Sin remaineth ever more; Like a wake upon the sh.o.r.e Soundeth ever from the chorus Of the spirits gone before us, "Ye shall meet us, ye shall greet us In the sweet homes of earth, in the places of our birth, Never more again, never more!"

So they sing, and sweetly dying Faints the message of their voices, Dying like the distant murmur, when a mighty host rejoices, But the echoes are replying with a melancholy sighing Never more again! never more!

Far-away Far far-away are the homes wherein they dwell, We have lost them, and it cost them Many a tear, and many a fear When G.o.d forbade their stay; But their sorrow, on the morrow Ceased in the dawning of a lighter, brighter day; And _our_ bliss shall be certain, when death's awful curtain.

Drawn from the darkness of mortal life away, To happy souls revealeth what it darkly now concealeth, Yielding to the glory of heaven's eternal ray.

Far far-away are the homes wherein they dwell, But we know that they are blest, and ever more at rest, And we utter from our hearts, "It is well."

"May I keep them, Power?" he asked, looking up.

"Do, Walter, as a remembrance of to-day."

"And may I make one change, which the bishop's sermon suggested?"

"By all means," said Power; and Walter, taking a pencil, added after the line "Nothing that is fair can stay," these words, which Power afterwards copied, writing at the top, "In memoriam, J.D."