Chapter XXIX: "blessed Are the Peacemakers."

IT was no false alarm. Walter Wilson was dying.

Day and night, almost without any intervals of rest, the penitent Elizabeth watched by the bedside of her brother.

Mrs. Matthew did not make many objections to this. Of course she had been hastily summoned to High Beech when it was found that Walter could not be conveyed home, and she had obeyed the call. She was concerned, too, when told that her son could not possibly rally beyond the few hours, or days at most, predicted by his medical attendant. She was not without natural affection, though this divine gift had been dulled and dimmed by many sordid cares, as we have seen. Still, when her first exclamations of grief had been uttered, she withdrew again into her ordinary self. She wasn't used to nursing, she said; and she didn't like to see anybody die. She didn't think she could stand it. Besides, she was getting old and feeble, and must have her proper night's rest, or where would the house-work go to?

As to getting a regular nurse for Walter, she went on, she didn't know what to say, she was sure. Regular nurses cost a deal of money, and they wanted a deal to eat and drink too, and that of the best. And where was that to come from? All she knew was that she hadn't seen the colour of Walter's money since he had come down upon them; and it was her opinion, as well as Matthew's, that he had come home from Australia pretty near as poor as a church mouse; and at their years (hers and Matthew's) it wasn't to be expected that they could maintain a grown-up son, and pay for his being nursed as well; to say nothing about burying him when he was dead, supposing he should die, as the doctor said.

So, if Elizabeth liked to tend him as he lay there, perhaps it was the best thing to do; and she (Mrs. Matthew) must get through the house-work as best she could without her; and that was hard lines enough. All this, and much more, the old lady enunciated in a sorrowful tone of injured innocence, or something like it.

Matthew Wilson was even less moved by the report of his eldest son's condition. But there is no need to dwell upon this painful side of human nature. It is enough to say again, that where grasping covetousness and close-fisted penuriousness get possession of a human soul, all natural affections become in time so blunted as to leave the unhappy entertainer like one "past feeling, twice dead, and plucked up by the roots." ¹

¹ The narrator writes cautiously and guardedly here, and the picture
he has sketched is but a faint copy of more than one original.

If the parents of the dying man were thus indifferent to the claims of natural affection, it is no great wonder that Mrs. George Wilson fretted exceedingly at the trouble to which she had unexpectedly been put by the perverseness of her husband's brother, in having brought himself to death's door in the place and manner described. Why should she be having the worry of a dying man in her house? she wanted to know. One way and another she had plenty of plague on her hands without that additional grievance. She said this, in other words, to Elizabeth, who made no reply, but with strong restraint turned to her brother's side to receive comfort from his dying words.

For Walter had regained consciousness, as we have seen; and, in the intervals of such distressing paroxysms of weakness and painful labouring for breath as were almost equally distressing to witness and to bear, he was able to point his sister to the only true hope and resting-place of the weary and heavy-laden.

During the two or three or more days which intervened between the departure of John Tincroft and his return, the only alleviation, from the outer world, of Elizabeth's trouble, and almost the only help she obtained in her anxious watching, was in the sympathy of Tom Grigson.

It was not much that this active man of business knew of, and it was not much, if the truth be known, that he cared for Walter Wilson; but he cared a good deal for his friend John Tincroft, and he manifested his love for John by caring for John's friends.

And if I were disposed to write a sermon on the diffusiveness of charity, I might find an illustration here—showing how the influence extends from heart to heart, till it embraces a whole circle of rightly-constituted minds in one bond of brotherhood. But I am not a preacher, and shall only advert to the results of this sympathetic, mysterious linking together of one human being with another. It came to pass, then, that Tom Grigson found himself, day after day, attracted to High Beech, and to the bedside of Walter Wilson, bringing with him such creature comforts as the ample resources of the Manor House could furnish, both for the necessities of the patient and the strengthening sustenance of the nurse.

The third day from the departure of John Tincroft brought down the London lawyer to the bedside of his client, and to the consultation that followed were admitted the squire from the Manor House and his brother. What passed in that solemn conclave was a profound secret to all around, but it terminated in Mr. Fawley (the lawyer, and an old friend of ours in a former history ¹) being invited to stay at the Manor House, instead of trusting to the uncertain hospitalities of the White Hart, which invitation was frankly accepted.

¹ See "George Burley's Experiences of Life."

The news that a gentleman from London had been to see Walter Wilson, and that he was staying at the Manor House, was duly conveyed to Low Beech Farm; but the intelligence excited only the suspicion of old Matthew, who was partially acquainted with the worst side of human nature, and knew what was what, as he said.

"Somebody that Walter owes money to, I'll be bound," said he; "and he'll be coming to me to get it out of me if he can."

Under this uneasy apprehension and distrust, Matthew Wilson kept away from High Beech, where his son lay a dying.

Meanwhile, the unselfish John Tincroft and his charge were travelling as swiftly as the various modes of conveyance they adopted admitted; and on the evening of the fourth day from John's departure on his sorrowful errand, they drove up to High Beech Farm. It was some relief to learn from Mrs. George, on arriving there, that Walter still lived, and, though slowly sinking, was sensible and able to converse at intervals with those around him.

After brief preparation, the agitated and heart-stricken daughter was admitted to her father's chamber, and the door was shut upon the two. We shall not intrude, nor attempt to describe the interview that followed. There are scenes and circumstances in the history of our lives almost too sacred and solemn to be introduced, with whatever effect, into a story such as this. And the almost final parting of a dying father from, and his last words to, a loving child must be reckoned among these scenes.

We descend, then, to the parlour below—so well-known to John Tincroft in the earlier days of our history, and which has been, not over graciously, yielded by Mrs. George Wilson to her husband's kinsfolk in these days of trouble. Here were seated John and Sarah, not yet disencumbered of their travelling attire, and not having dismissed their hired chaise, which was still outside awaiting further orders. I have little doubt that, as they sat there, some odd and (notwithstanding the present grave and sorrowful occasion) rather comically bewildering remembrances stole in upon them both, causing them to look askance, first of all, at the old-fashioned worm-eaten chairs on which they rested, and then shyly and slyly at each other, whereupon Sarah blushed a little, and John, not to confuse his dear wife, made believe not to notice it, but turned away his eyes and looked out of the window instead. And, then they were recalled to a sense of the trouble that had brought them to High Beech, by hearing the voice of Elizabeth as she descended the stairs.

Sarah and Elizabeth had never seen each other since the day of Sarah's marriage, more than twenty years before; and then their parting was of the coolest and most indifferent sort. And Mrs. Tincroft, on her way to her old home, from the moment of getting into the Trotbury coach, had been unceasingly pondering in her dear little mind how ever she should accomplish a meeting with her cousin. She had no enmity against Elizabeth. Why should she have? To be sure, she had received unkindness at her cousin's hands; but that was long ago, and, besides, it had all turned out for the best. What would be the good, then, of bearing in mind those old passages of arms?

To tell the truth, too, Sarah, weak-minded as no doubt she was, was intrinsically good-natured and loving; and it would have been strange if her twenty years and more of companionship with gall-less John Tincroft had not had a beneficial effect upon her. But, for all that, she wasn't quite sure whether a certain show of dignity in remembrance of past injustice and injury wouldn't be the proper thing to put on in the anticipated meeting. Of course, after this she would show herself very forgiving and very affectionate towards her former persecutor—and so on, and so on.

I have just come across a passage in my desultory reading, which may give me a lift in this part of my story. "The payments and debts and returns of affection," says the writer, "are at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone; others deal out their affections at interest; others, again, take everything, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch, and go then way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar."

Well, these payments and debts and returns are no doubt hard to reckon. When they had been girls together, Elizabeth and Sarah had loved one another as cousins. Then had come the fatal blight, brought on by Mark Wilson's vice of intemperance and the kindred one of recklessness: and their whole treasury of love had been poisoned by unkindness on one side and angry resentment on the other. And now, how were they to meet?

John Tincroft had his doubts and anxious thoughts about this, I think; for he sat uneasily watching and waiting for the opening of the door, glancing every now and then at his little wife's perturbed and flushed countenance. And then, presently, the door handle was moved, the latch was gently lifted, and the door was slowly opened. John started from his seat, sprang hastily forward; and before the cousins had time to make up their minds what to say to one another at first starting, he had, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, as he was and ever had been, despite his awkward shyness, led the homely, hard-working, and penitent Elizabeth across the room to where his wife was now standing, like a timid, half-frightened fawn, and brought into contact the hands which had so long been strangers to each other's grasp. And then came a little startled cry; and Sarah threw her disengaged arm round Elizabeth's neck, and in another moment the cousins were in close embrace, as though they had never been separated in affection.

"How could I ever behave to you as I did?" sobbed Elizabeth.

And after this, and when they had settled down, John left the cousins by themselves, under the pretence of looking after the chaise and its driver, for he could see that he had done all that was needed.

"He is so good—so good to me, and to everybody!" cried Sarah, as the door was shut upon Elizabeth and herself: and then the payments and debts and returns of affection, which are so hard to reckon, welled up from both their softened hearts; and there was no more said, on either side, about the past unhappy alienation.

An hour later, and when dear Helen's interview with her father was over, and John and Sarah had stood for a little while by Walter's bedside, it was agreed that Helen—who would not leave her father, she said—should remain under the protection of Aunt Elizabeth, while John and Sarah went to the Manor House, where, as a matter of course, they were expected. And the power of kindness so wrought even upon the hard and not very impressible nature of Mrs. George Wilson, that she felt herself softening under it to the heart-stricken Helen, and agreed that, as long as was needed, she should share with Elizabeth the little bedchamber which for the last few days she had nominally occupied while nursing her brother.

It was not long needed. On the day week from Walter's fainting fit in the holly arbour, he gently sank into that slumber from which there is no awakening. One hand, damp with the dews of death, was laid on the head of his kneeling, weeping daughter, and the other feebly clasped those of his first love and her husband.

And then, as twilight deepened, a solemn silence fell upon all assembled there. Walter was dead.

Later that evening, the last offices to the poor mortal and corruptible body having been performed, came the village carpenter; and all that night, till early morning, in the stillness of the village, was heard from the dimly-lighted-up carpenter's shop, the sharp sound of saw, and hammer, and nails on stout elm boards, which told of another claimant for a resting-place in God's Acre.

On the following evening, the laden coffin was quietly, and without much observation, conveyed from High Beech to the old farmhouse in the valley, and there, in the chamber where he had first drawn breath, was deposited, until the day to be appointed for the funeral, all that was left of the first-born of old Matthew Wilson.

Meanwhile Helen, submitting herself to the loving care and sympathy of her friend and protectress, Mrs. Tincroft, had been received at the Manor House with genuine kindness and all delicate attentions by Richard Grigson and his motherly housekeeper.