BY THE GRACE OF GOD.

Waikato Argus, Volume III, Issue 212, 20 November 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

BY THE GRACE OF GOD.

[Edward Sandkord, of whom it had been said that " no paiuter in England was better or more favourably known," at the agv of (>O, with a large and luxury-loving household to provide for, suddenly finds his work no longer in vogue, With the slimmest of bank accounts to his credit, and no commissions in hand, the shock of the chance intelligence (charitably kept fr.>m him hitherto by the picture dealer, Daniells) that three of his last pictures are absolutely unsaleable and turned to the wall in a private room of the friendly dealer comes in the nature of a deathblow to the old artist—only he cannot die. At his age, with no future, he feels that this would be the very best thing, as then his insurance money would provide ia some measure for tbo wife and children to whom he cannot communicate the distressful certainty that they all stand tope ther on the brink of a precipice. Moral scruples prevent his taking his own life, and, too, tint would lose the insurance. If only something would happen by the race of (Sod ! An accident, occurring to a coaching party given by the picture dealer, Daniells, which Mrs Sandford, noting her husband's low spirits, has persuaded him to join, bestows the longedfor dispensation.]

Ho remembered little more, except by snatches ; an unknown face —probably the doctor's—looking exceedingly grave, bending over him ; then Daniells' usually jovial countenance, with all the lines drooping and the colour bknehed out of it, and a sound of low voices talking something over, of which he could only make out the words, " Telegraph at once"; then, " Too late ! It must not be too late. She must come at once." He wondered vaguely who this was, and why there should be such a hurry. And then, all at once, it seenif-d to him that it was his bedside, lie had just wakened up from what seemed a very long, confused, and ferverish night—how long he never knew. But when he woko everything was clear to him. Unless, by the grace of God, something were to happen Something was about to happen, by the grace of God. " Mary '" he cried, with a flush of joy. " You here ?" " Of course, my dearest," she said with a cheerful look, " as soon as I heard there had been an accident." lie took her hand between his and drew her to him.

" This was all I wanted," he .said. " God is very good ; He gives me everything."

" Oh, Edward !"

This pitiful protest, remonstrance, appeal to heaven and earth—for all these were in her cry—came to her unawares.

"Yes," he said, " my dear, everything has happened as I desired. I understand it all now. I thought I was not hurt; now I see. lam not hurt ; 1 am killed, like, the boy—don't you remember I —in Browning's ballad. Don't be shocked, dear. Why shouldn't Ibe cheerful 1 I am not—sorry."

" Oh, Edward !" she cried again, the passion of her trouble exasperated by his composure; "not to leave —us all 1" He held her hand between his, smiling at her. " It was what I wanted," he said —" not to leave you ; but don't you believe, my darling, there must be .something about that leaving which is not so dreadful, which is made easy to the man who goes away ? Certainly, I don't want to leave you ; but it's so much for your good —for the children's good " '• Oh, never, Edward, never !" " Yes ; it's new to you, but I've been thinking about it for a long time—so much that 1 once thought it would almost have been worth the while but for the insurances to have " ■' Edward !" She looked at him with an agonised cry. " No, dear—nothing of the kind. I never would, 1 never could have clone it. It would have been contrary to nature. The accident—was without any will or action of mine. By the grace of God " "Edward! Edward! Oh, don't say that; by His hand, heavy, heavy, upon us !" "It is you that should not say that. Mary. If you only knew, my dear. I want you to understand so long as I am here to tell you " " He must not talk so much," said the voice of the doctor behind ; " his strength must be husbanded. Mrs Sandford, you must not allow him to exhaust himself."

" Doctor," said Mr Sandford, " 1 take it for granted you're a man of sense. What can you do for me ? Spin out my life for a few more feeble hours. Which would you rather have yourself ? That, or the power of saying everything to the person you love best in the world !" " Let him talk," said the doctor, turning away ; " 1 have no answer to make. Give him a little of this if ho turns faint. And send for me if you want me, Mrs Sandford." " Thanks, doctor. That is a man of sense; Mary. I feel quite well, quite able to tell you everything." " Oh, Edward, when that is the case, things cannot be so bad ! If you will only take care, only try to save your strength, to keep up. Oh, my clear ! the will to get well does so much ! Try ! try ! Edward, for the love of God !"

" My own Mary ; always believing that everything's to be done by an effort, as all women do. I am glad it is out of my power. If I were in any pain there might be some hope for you, but I'm in no pain. There's nothing the matter with mo but dying. And I have long felt that was the only way."

■' Dying I —not when you were with us at the sea 1"

" Most of all then," he said, with a smile.

" Oh, Edward ! Edward ! and I full of amusements, of pleasure, leaving you alone." '• It was better so. I am glad of every hour's respite you have had. And now you'll be able to break up the house, which would have been a hard thing and a bitter downfall in my lifetime. It will be quite natural now. They will give you a pension, and there will be the insurance money'

1 I cannot bear it,' she cried wildly. ' I cannot have you speak like this.'

' Not when it is tie utmost ease to mv mind—the utmost comfort'—

She clasped her hands firmly together. ' Say anything you wish Edward.' ' Yes, my poor dear.' Ho was very, very sorry for his wife. It burst upon her without preparation, without a word of warning. Oh, he is sorry for her! But for himself it was a supreme consolation to pour it all forth, to toil her everything. 'lf I were going to be leFt behind,' he said soothingly, 'my heart would be broken ; but it is softened somehow to those that are going away. I can't tell you how. It is, though ; it is all so vague and soft. I know I'll lose you, Mary, as you_ will lose me, but I don't feel it. My dearest, I have not a commission, not one. And there arc three pictures of mine unsold in Daniells' inner shop, fje wil' tell you if you ask him. The three last. That one of the little Queen and her little Maries that outMary sat for—that yon liked so much, you remember? It is standing in Daniells' room ; three of them. I think I sec them against the wall.' 1 Edward !

' Oh, no, my head is not going. I only think I soe them. And it Avas the merest chance that the ' Black Prince ' sold, and not a commission, not a commission. Think of that, Mary. It is true such a thing has happened before, but I never was CO before. Do you forget lam an old man, and my day is over ? ' No, no, no,' she cried with passion ; ' it is not so.'

1 Oh, yes, facts are stubborn things —it is so, And what should we have done if our income had stopped in a moment, as it would have done 1 A precipice before our feet, and nothing, nothing beyond. Now for you, my darling, it will be far easier. You can sell the house and all that is in t. And they will give you a pension, and the children will have something to begin upon.' 1 Oh, the children !' she cried, taking his hands in hers, bowing down her face upon it. ' Oh, E lward what are the children between you and me V

She cast them away in the supreme moment, the young creatures are so well, so gay, so hopeful. In hotdespair and passion she flung their crowding images from her—those images which had forced her husband From her heart.

He laughed a low quiet laugh. 'God bless them,' he said ; ' but 1 like to have you all to my self, you and me only, for the last moment, Mary. You have been always the best wife that ever was—nay, I won't say have been—you are, my dear, my wife. We don't understand anything about widows, you and I. Death's nothing, I think. It looks dreadful when you're not going- But God manages that all so well. It is if it were nothing to me. Mary, where are you 1 ' Here, Edward, holding your hand. Oh, my dear, don't you see me 1' ' Yes, yes,' he said, with a faint laugh, as if ashamed at some mistake ho had made, and put his other hand over hers with a slight groping movement. ' It's getting late,' he said ; ' it's getting dark. What time is it 1 Seven o'clock ? You'll not go down to dinner, Mary ? Stay with me. They can bring you something upstairs.'

'Go down ! 0!i, no !no ! Do you think I would leave you Edward]' She had made a little pause of terror before she spoke, for indeed it was broad day, and the full afternoon sunshine still bright outside, and nothing to suggest the twilight. He smiled again—a soft, pleasurable smile.

' If you don't mind sitting by me a little. I see your face in glimpses, sometimes as if you had wings and were hovering over me. My head's swimming a little. Don't light the candles. I like the half-light ; you know I always did—so long as I can see you with it, Mary. Is that a comfortable chair ? Then sit down, my love, and let me keep your hand, and I'll get a little sleep:' ' It will do you good,' said the poor wife. 'Who knows?' he said, with another smile. But don't let them light the candles.' Light the candles ! She could see where she sat there, the red sunshine falling in a blaze upon a ruddy heathery hill, and beating upon the dark firs, which stood out like ink against the background. There is perhaps nothing that so wrings the heart of the watcher as this pathetic mistake of day for night which betrays the eyes from which all light is failing. He lay within the shadow of a curtain, always holding her hand fast, and fell asleep—a sleep which for a time, was soft and quiet enough, but afterwards got a little disturbed. She sat quite still, not moving, scarcely breathing, that she might not. disturb him, not a tear in her eye, her whole being wound into an external calm which was so

strangely unlike the tumult within. After an interval he began to speak again, but so that she saw that ho was asleep still or wandering in those vague regions between consciousness and nothingness. ' All against the wall, with the faces turned,' he said. ' Three, all the last ones : the one my wife liked so. In the inner room, Daniells'a good fellow. He spared me the sight of of them outside. Three—that's one of the perfect numbers—that's—l could alway see them, on the road and on the moor, and at the races ; then—l wonder—all the way up—on the road to heaven ? No ! no ! One of the angels—would come and turn them round—turn them round. Nothing like that in the presence of God. It would be disrespectful—disrespectful. Turn them round —with their faces ' He paused his eyes were closed, an inaffable smile came over his mouth. 'He —will see what's best in them,' ho said.

After this for a time silence reigned, broken only now and then by a word sometimes unintelligible. Once his wife thought she caught something about the'four square walls in the new Jerusalem ' sometimes tender words about herself, bub nothing clear. It was not until night that he woke, surprising them with an outcry as to the light, as he had previously spoken about the darkness.

' You need not,' he said, « light such an illumination for me—al giorno, as (he Italians say, but I like it—l like it. Daniells' has the soul of a Prince.' Then he put out his hands feebly, calling. ' Mary ! Mary !' and drew her closer to him, and whispered a long, earnest communication, but what it was the poor lady never knew. She listened intently, but she could not make out a word. What was it? What was it? Whatever it was, to have said it was an infinite satisfaction to him. He dropped bade upon his pillows with an air of content indescribable and silent pleasure, He had done everything, he had said everything. And in this mood slept again, and woke no more.—From ' The Ways of Life,' by Mrs Uliphant.