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Page 21
"I should like to speak to him, Ducie. Tell him that Charlotte Sandal
wants his blessing."
He was lying on the big oak bed in the best room, waiting for his
dismissal in cheerful serenity. "Come here, Charlotte," he said; "stoop
down, and let me see you once more. My sight grows dim. I am going away,
dear."
"O grandfather! is there any thing I can do for you?"
"Be a good girl. Be good, and do good. Stand true to
Steve,--remember,--true to Steve." And he did not seem inclined to talk
more.
"He is saving his strength for the squire," said Ducie. "He has a deal
to say to him."
"Father hoped to be back this afternoon."
"Though it be the darkening when he gets home, ask him to come at once,
Charlotte. Father is waiting for him, and I don't think he will pass the
turn of the night."
There were many subtle links of sympathy between Up-Hill and Sandal.
Death could not be in one house without casting a shadow in the other.
Julius privately thought such a fellow-feeling a little stretched. The
Latriggs were on a distinctly lower social footing than the Sandals.
Rich they might be; but they were not written among the list of county
families, nor had they even married into their ranks. He could not
understand why Barf Latrigg's death should be allowed to interfere with
life at Seat-Sandal. Yet Mrs. Sandal was at Up-Hill all the afternoon;
and, though the squire did not get home until quite the darkening, he
went at once, without taking food or rest, to the dying man.
"Why, Barf is very near all the same as my own father," he said. And
then, in a lower voice, "and he may see my father before the strike of
day. I wouldn't miss Barfs last words for a year of life. I wouldn't
that."
It was a lovely night,--warm, and sweet with the scent of August lilies,
and the rich aromas of ripening fruit and grain. The great hills and the
peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there
was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some
solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells. Sophia and
Julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive
suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people
seldom discuss in the sunshine,--intimations of lost powers, prior
existences, immortal life. Julius was learned in the Oriental view of
metempsychosis. Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the
highest inspiration of Western thought.
"It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said;
"and they interpreted for Mr. Wordsworth the dream of his own soul."
"I know, Sophia. I lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." And
he recited in a low, intense voice,--
"'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:'"
"Oh, yes!" answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.
"Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.'"
And they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation.
Eternity was behind as before them. Soft impulses from moon and stars,
and from the witching beauty of lonely hills and scented garden-ways,
touched within their souls some primal sympathy that drew them close to
that unseen boundary dividing spirits from shadow-casting men. It is
true they rather felt than understood; but when the soul has faith, what
matters comprehension?
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