WAITING IN THE CHURCH.

Cromwell Argus, Volume I, Issue 34, 6 July 1870, Page 7

WAITING IN THE CHURCH.

A STONY IN THREE PARTS. the' (From Chambers's Journal) I FART 11.-A RESURRECTION, iigjj [here was very little time for sorrowing, iW|r even for reflection. I had scarcely bund my way through tho sad duty of hai icnveying to my mother and Cousin Jenuy ' o( ;|,e tidings I had gathered out of the newsier, when there came a telegram from f a to Vne, saying that he hhad landed at , of Plymouth with the mails, and would bo in to, London that afternoon. In the evening, Irk [ had mot him at Paddington, and brought lim home ; the sorrowful greetings were to >ver, and ho and I were left alone for a ity ittle while by the woraen-folk, talking of ' tho past. la, “ Yes, |rad,” said Jack, “ I loved poor ra.lMary with all ray soul. Since I made her ■t.ftay wife, it seemed to me that I could ask da|t,he world no more than I had got; till the ieslawful night when I lost her. The- world ! jphe was more to me than all the world, or JL dozen worlds, could have been. And the went down, under an angry wave, in lw |> storm at sea, when no man could give n, Bier help ; and so I’m left alone 1” y\ i Poor Jack was scarcely himself—he ’ found it hard to talk to mo, or to my mold pier even, of the loss he had suffered. We ,t ( thought it best to let him alone, and by idegrees he told ns all the story. In I They had left Bombay early in March, sd lor late in February, full of the pleasant - Expectation of performing the promise of nx phis letter—that they would spend the snm- !’* jlner with ns in Old England. Mary was w In better spirits than when he last wrote jo ’to us; indeed, on the morning after they set sail from India, she was joyous beyond 9 mil Iris recollection of her, and made light n |of Iris fears lest the voyage might not be si fall an experience of pleasure. The early idiweeks of the journey were so many stages 1” f fthrongh a golden clime, with cerulean seas i- I land ruby sunsets, and morning skies like of mother-of-peail, set with fdiatnond stars. But, as they were ap■di'jprcaching the coast of Africa, the weather igßchanged, the barometer sank, and the wild uifeast winds came upon them, seizing their d' .ship, which was all the world to them, as [|a waif upon the sea, and driving them as 11: fa straw before the wintry breeze. Then n ipoor tender Mary’s spfeits began to sink :a ito zero. As the elements gathered round aithem in the eestaey of wrath, site clung to fejjhcr husband, and cried to him: “Jack, a| my iWrcst, my all, we shall not Bsee our friends. These angry se«s will I swallow us ! We shall die and be buried l-i in their depths. But, Jack, dear, you ’»« will not leave me—we shall die together ; 111 ar d in the world to come wo shall awake side by side.” 0 When mv brother told me of this, dedp scribing, incidentally, the awful accompanist merits of the storm—how the waters were 61 engulfing them,, as mountains rolling in angry waves, and every moment was subr| merging the frail vessel in which was all ' fi their hope—how the heaven was black with i, ravless clouds that seemed to threaten as , i with the vengeance of the great eternal ,I God— how the folded, close-reefed sails »| were stripped in ribbons from the yards, and the rigging strained, and wailed, and I snapped in the gale, and the ship drifted 1 | helplessly, defying the helm, and perplexing »i all calculations as to her course, while tor)i rents of dark-blue waters rushed and roared i [j across her decks, and the old sailors quailed »I before the fury of the storm—the tears , j| rolled down his cheeks, and I saw how f | deeply Jack had loved the woman who 1 1 was gone, and how desolate this great ca- • | lamity had left him. “It’s all over with ns, Ned,” said he; M f “ the mainmast had gone overboard, and f the water was rushing into the hold, by a » i hole staved in between the timbers by the • j great yard, which the billows were workm ing like a battering-ram against the ship’s 1 ; side. The first heat was swung out oyer • | the bulwarks, and all the women but one ' wdte in it. I had seen Mary into it, i seated near 1 the stern, with Captain Gal--5 ] health and the doctor, and Mrs Wilbrahara. r -.| the poor old captain, who was' beI ! yond his wits, suddenly cried out, “Where’s I I my daughter ?” She had been left alone ’1 below ; and what could I do but rush off | with the steward to fetch her ? When we 11 came back, the boat had been lowered ‘<4 nearly to the water’s edge ; and just as we Iwere trwing to pass the poor girl into it, a big waw SAvept over ns, carried her out of our arms, swept the steward over the side, and left me prostrate and powerless. I heard the cries of a dozen men around me, and staggered to ray feet, only to see the shadow of the boat disappearing in the | trough between two large billows, one of f I which rose up between us and the doomed j I ones ; and thrt was the last I saw of poor, 1 i dear Mary. The night was pitch-black, I and we had only seen them by the lights ’ I that struggled from the fore-mast and the *| mizzen-mast through the stormy gloom. * I All was over. How I had mind enough to 9 1 follow the captain’s orders after that awful || parting—how I came to live at all. I shall I never know; but next clay, when the long y waves were running low again, and the sun was shining hotly down from a cloudless sky, I found myself crouched by the captaiu’s side, in an open boat, far out upon the ocean. There were others with V)\ 3 —two lay dead in the bottom of the'

boat, one lay dying, arid the fourth was fast going mad. The hot tropical sun finished the work. The third man died Wore the morning; the fourth man, frantic, sprang overboard before the sun went down ; and in tho short twilight the captain throw tho three corpses into tho sea. Tho cool night-air restored me somewhat, and I slept; but whon morning came, I suppose I was far gone in fever. I remember no more, till I found myself on board tho ship that had picked us up, and was bringing us to the Cape. I owe my life to the captain, but, were it not for mother and you, Ned, I think I would have rather found a grave by Mary’s side, in the depths of the ludian’Ocean.” It is scarcely necessary to explain how deep an impression this strange and melancholy adventure made upon us all at home. As for me, I mourned almost as much for poor Mary, cut off in the flower of her beauty, and the dawn of her married life, by her cruel fate, as Jack himself, who had known her so much better, and loved her so dearly. As for Cousin Jenny, she wept true women’s tears as the story was told, and seemed to draw nearer to Jack, and close to his heart, as though she would have healed the wound his sorrows had made, by the.tenderness of her kind solicitude. And, as for my mother, she was kind and gentle, beyond all I had ever known of her; she spake never a hard word, such as she would have said if Jack had come home bringing his young wife with him ; and she soothed his grief by all those loving arts that good women learn and practise from infancy to age. Blind that I was ! The summer wore away; the autumn glowed and faded; winter came, grew white and old, and passed us by ; and still I saw not—never seemed to dream—what wreck was working all around my heart. One thing I noted—that the poignancy of my brother’s sorrow melted away ; and that as the days grew between him and his misfortune, calm resignation, then quiet enjoyment, and at last high spirits, came to him. One evening in the early spring, I went home weary, after a long day’s round amongst my patients, and I found my mother waiting for me in the drawing-room. Jack was out, and Jenny had gone with him for a saunter in the green lanes, just as she had gone with me—-an age ago. “Nod,” said my mo : her, “I want to have a talk with you. If you arc not too much tired, come out into the garden.” £0 out we went- and sat down in a quiet, shady arbour, beneath the trees. “ Did not my boy want to make Jenny his wife 1” she said, while I was listlessly waiting to -know why she had brought me there I “ Yes, mother,” I answered. “ I asked her, and I mean to ask her again." “ It’s too hue, Ned,” said my mother. “ Too late ! • What do you mean, mother!” I asked, as a strong thrill of fea>*, half conscious of danger, passed through me, body and mind. “ She did not speak at once; but presently she said, “ Jenny is a good, girl, Ned. However you might be mistaken in her, you would think that, my boy.” “ Good ! —why, mother, there is no goodness I think too much for her. She is all truth and goodness ; and if I wait a dozen years, I’ll try to win her yet.” “ Yes, yes," said my mother, with a touch of impatience in her voice ; “ you don’t think more of her than I do. But did it never occur to you that she loved some one more than you i” The recollection of the evening at Kilburn came back to me, and I answered doubtfullv, “Yes; she told me so when I asked her if—if she could love me.” “ She told you honestly—plainly, Ned!” “ Oh, yes,” said I, gaining courage as my remembrance grew clearer. “ Yes, she told me. But, mother, I have hopes of overcoming all that. Whoever it was that she loved, he does not come to claim her ; and she can’t go on for ever dreami ig of a love—if love it be, or aught mors than a girl’s fancy—when the man she has wasted half her heart upon does not care to ask her. She cannot be insensible to my devotion to her; and I am not too proud, mother, to take her with such affection as she can give me. I love her with all my soul, and I shall take courage and ask her again. “ Poor Ned !” said my mother. There was a depth of compassion in her voice that startled me ; and when I looked at her, my heart took alarm from the expression of her gentle face. “ Why so poor, mother 1” I asked her, trying to disguise my fears as I spoke. “ Don’t fear, but I shall succeed by-an-by. 1 can afford to be patient, and I shall persevere.” “ Oh, Ned, Ned ! did it never occur to you who it was that won your cousin Jenny’s heart?” “No, indeed,” I cried, excited at length by the sense of the loss I might have sustained—“ no, indeed : I wish it had. He’s some mean cui’, who wins hearts to break them, and spoil the chance of honest men, I would that I could only’ “ Don’t speak so, Ned,” said my mother, quietly. “ It’s your brother Jack.” The words failed to convey their moaning to my roind, and I thought my mother had broken off suddenly from the subject of our conversation.

“ What’s ray brother Jack 1” ’ I S asked petulantly. “ Why, Ned, my boy, your brother Jack won little Jenny’s heart years ago, when you were all children together. I do not believe he knew how much he had won, or he would never have been false to her. He went away to India; and she, left here to think of him, loved him the more, in that he sent her not a single tender word all the time, when her poor soul was yearning for him. Then he fell in love with another girl, and married her ; and brave little Jenny boro it well, but was sorrowful enough, poor dear, as I saw well; and I was angry with Jack, because I know how true a heart ho had thrown so ruthlessly away.” “ Bat, mother,” said I, as all the truth of this began to dawn upon me, “ what does all this matter now? Jack didn’t love her, and he married another woman ; and if what you tell me is true, she is free to be wooed and won by a more faithful heart.” “ Ah, Ned, my child,” said my mother, tenderly .putting her'hand on mine as she spoke, with a sad, sympathising tone in her voice, “ why have you shut your eyes to all that concerned your happiness ? Did not Jack come home in sorrow, and without a wife, and before poor Jenny had had time to forgot her love for him? And how could she fail to show him in his trouble how much she cared for him ? And how was he to be blind then to her love, or to keep down his old regard for her, as it grew up strong from the ashes of his lost joy?” I began to see it at last, and a wild sense of injury and wrong was growing up within me. She went on—- “ Why, Ned, my dear, Jack has asked her to marry him and go back with him to India, and she has consented ; and it will be all over in a month from now.” Simple words enough, were they not? I ougat to have been glad—glad that Cousin Jenny’s love had found response at last, and glad that Brother Jack had come by some consolation for his trouble, and would not go back desolate to the far East, no doubt. But I was not glad. I was stricken, wounded cruelly, numbed by the weight of my new grief. I got up anil walked away, feeling as Esau may have done when Jacob had cheated him out of his birthright— almost as Cain must have felt when Abel’s offering was accepted by the Almighty, and his own rejected. What had I done, that my love should be trampled under foot ? Why was Jack, who had had his joys, and won his bride and known himself loved, to be rewards*] for his sudden passing pain by the gift of that which I had spent my life in trying to win 1 These were the thoughts that troubled me, bewildered me, maddened mo, and drove me into the night, to wander alone far along the country roads. The struggle was long, and keen, and terrible ; but at length my better self prevailed. I was broken-hearted ; but why kick against the pricks? The hope of my life was oyer; but should I therefore cast a chill’og shadow on Jenny’s joy?' The best fortune that could fall to man had passed away from me ; but need I, knowing this, be and refuse to be joyful in my brother’s happiness? With these reflections, I turned and went home. Jack was sitting by the study-fire, and his smile was glad and full. I stifled my selfishness, and congratulated him ; and then I sat for hours and listened to the outpourings of his delight in the possession of that which should have been mine. Jack—light hearted, impulsive, impressionable child of the sunlight—never penetrated the gloom, the chill reserve, from which I could not, in spite of myself, escape. He was in ecstacy. “ No doubt,” I thought, bitterly, “ she was dreaming of the fulfilment of her hope, and the return of her love. Well, so be it—l’ll not be the spectre at the banquet; if you are hapyy, I’ll seem happy too.” It will be all over in a month from now,” my mother had said truly. Of course, for Jack’s leave was up, and he must be going back to his post. Wo might never see him again. Ten years he was away before ; and what might not the next ten years bring with them ?—for ray mother, whose hair was white already with with the gathering bloom of age ?—-for me, the elder brother, going onward to the graver scenes of life, without those sweet domestic ties that smooth the way so much for happier men ?—for Jenny, passing away from her youth to her matronhood, and going to brave new climes for her lover’s sake?—and for Jack himself, entering on a new lease of joys and good fortune ? We had enough to think of—l, for one. more than enough—during those few fleeting days. Shall I ever forget how lovingly Cousin Jenny tried to soften the grief I was too proud to confess—the grief that was too strong and trim to be concealed from bar keen sight ?—how she strove, by a thousand little acts and words, to toll mo how she would have loved me, but that her heart had been captive to mother before I sought to win if for myself! There was little time or opportunity to think of such things then. Very soon, three weeks had gone, and the wedding morning came. They wore to be married at St. John’s. Jack and I had moved to lodgings some clays before ; and Jenny and mother had the house all to

themsqlres for the last preparations. I rose early, fevered with the excitement of the crowding events and conflicting emotions through which I had passed, and arrayed myself in the garments in which I was to figure as Jack’s “ best man.’’ There was a patient whom I must visit before the ceremony; and Jack was still in his room when I went out of the house. “ Half-past ten at Ihe churcji door, Jackprompt ; now, don’t forget I” I shouted at the foot of the staircase. “ All right! I’ll bo there,” said Jack. I went and saw my patient; and at twenty minutes after ten I was ready in the porch. The minutes passed ; and as the clock struck the half-hour I became uneasy, for Jack had not arrived. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, and yet he did not come. A carriage drove up ; and I had to help out the bride and ray mother. Where was Jack? There was no sign of him. I rushed off as hard as I could go, hoping to meet him. ' The road was straight, and I could not miss him ; but 1 reached the lodgings without a sight of the truant. “ Where on.earth is my brother?” I cried to the landlady as I entered. “ He’s up-stairs in the sitting-room, and there’s a lady with him,” was the answer. “ A lady—-what lady ?” “ Unpossible for me to Say, sir,” said the landlady, with a disdainful and significant toss of the head.' I rushed up stairs, and, waiting for no thought of ceremony, entered the room. There sat Jack, with his head bowed down upon his arms on the table ; and kneeling at his feet was a woman—a strangely beautiful, pale-faced woman—in tears. I halted, but only for a moment, for I had no clue to this strange scene. “ Come, Jack,” I cried, “ come along, ray boy. They’re waiting for you —waiting in the Church.” • Jack lifted his face, and looked at me with an awful smile—a smile of agony ; and he said, putting his hand softly on the woman’s brow, “Ned, this is my wifecome back to me from the grave.” [To 1)6 concluded in our next]