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CONCLUSION.
The ebbing tide that leaves bare the shore swells the heaps of the
central sea. The tide of life ebbs from this body of mine, soon to lie
on the shore of life like a stranded wreck; but the murmur of the
waters that break upon no strand is in my ears; to join the waters of
the infinite life, mine is ebbing away.
Whatever has been his will is well--grandly well--well even for that in
me which feared, and in those very respects in which it feared that it
might not be well. The whole being of me past and present shall say: It
is infinitely well, and I would not have it otherwise. Rather than it
should not be as it is, I would go back to the world and this body of
which I grew weary, and encounter yet again all that met me on my
journey. Yes--final submission of my will to the All-will--I would meet
it knowing what was coming. Lord of me, Father of Jesus Christ, will
this suffice? Is my faith enough yet? I say it, not having beheld what
thou hast in store--not knowing what I shall be--not even absolutely
certain that thou art--confident only that, if thou be, such thou must
be.
The last struggle is before me. But I have passed already through so
many valleys of death itself, where the darkness was not only palpable,
but choking and stinging, that I cannot greatly fear that which holds
but the shadow of death. For what men call death, is but its shadow.
Death never comes near us; it lies behind the back of God; he is
between it and us. If he were to turn his back upon us, the death which
no imagination can shadow forth, would lap itself around us, and we
should be--we should not know what.
At night I lie wondering how it will feel; and, but that God will be
with me, I would rather be slain suddenly, than lie still and await the
change. The growing weakness, ushered in, it may be, by long agony; the
alienation from things about me, while I am yet amidst them; the slow
rending of the bonds which make this body a home, so that it turns half
alien, while yet some bonds unsevered hold the live thing fluttering in
its worm-eaten cage--but God knows me and my house, and I need not
speculate or forebode. When it comes, death will prove as natural as
birth. Bethink thee, Lord--nay, thou never forgettest. It is because
thou thinkest and feelest that I think and feel; it is on thy deeper
consciousness that mine ever floats; thou knowest my frame, and
rememberest that I am dust: do with me as thou wilt. Let me take
centuries to die if so thou willest, for thou wilt be with me. Only if
an hour should come when thou must seem to forsake me, watch me all the
time, lest self-pity should awake, and I should cry that thou wast
dealing hardly with me. For when thou hidest thy face, the world is a
corpse, and I am a live soul fainting within it.
* * * * *
Thus far had I written, and was about to close with certain words of
Job, which are to me like the trumpet of the resurrection, when the
news reached me that Sir Geoffrey Brotherton was dead. He leaves no
children, and the property is expected to pass to a distant branch of
the family. Mary will have to leave Moldwarp Hall.
* * * * *
I have been up to London to my friend Marston--for it is years since Mr
Coningham died. I have laid everything before him, and left the affair
in his hands. He is so confident in my cause, that he offers, in case
my means should fail me, to find what is necessary himself; but he is
almost as confident of a speedy settlement.
And now, for the first time in my life, I am about--shall I say, to
court society? At least I am going to London, about to give and receive
invitations, and cultivate the acquaintance of those whose appearance
and conversation attract me.
I have not a single relative, to my knowledge, in the world, and I am
free, beyond question, to leave whatever property I have, or may have,
to whomsoever I please.
My design is this: if I succeed in my suit, I will offer Moldwarp to
Mary for her lifetime. She is greatly beloved in the county, and has
done much for the labourers, nor upon her own lands only. If she had
the full power she would do yet better. But of course it is very
doubtful whether she will accept it. Should she decline it, I shall try
to manage it myself--leaving it to her, with reversion to the man,
whoever he may be, whom I shall choose to succeed her.
What sort of man I shall endeavour to find, I think my reader will
understand. I will not describe him, beyond saying that he must above
all things be just, generous, and free from the petty prejudices of the
country gentleman. He must understand that property involves service to
every human soul that lives or labours upon it--the service of the
elder brother to his less burdened yet more enduring and more helpless
brothers and sisters; that for the lives of all such he has in his
degree to render account. For surely God never meant to uplift any man
at the expense of his fellows; but to uplift him that he might be
strong to minister, as a wise friend and ruler, to their highest and
best needs--first of all by giving them the justice which will be
recognized as such by him before whom a man is his brother's keeper,
and becomes a Cain in denying it.
Lest Lady Brotherton, however, should like to have something to give
away, I leave my former will as it was. It is in Marston's hands.
* * * * *
Would I marry her now, if I might? I cannot tell. The thought rouses no
passionate flood within me. Mighty spaces of endless possibility and
endless result open before me. Death is knocking at my door.--
No--no; I will be honest, and lay it to no half reasons, however
wise.--I would rather meet her then first, when she is clothed in that
new garment called by St Paul the spiritual body. That, Geoffrey has
never touched; over that he has no claim.
But if the loveliness of her character should have purified his, and
drawn and bound his soul to hers?
Father, fold me in thyself. The storm, so long still, awakes; once more
it flutters its fierce pinions. Let it not swing itself aloft in the
air of my spirit. I dare not think, not merely lest thought should
kindle into agony, but lest I should fail to rejoice over the lost and
found. But my heart is in thy hand. Need I school myself to bow to an
imagined decree of thine? Is it not enough that, when I shall know a
thing for thy will, I shall then be able to say: Thy will be done? It
is not enough; I need more. School thou my heart so to love thy will
that in all calmness I leave to think what may or may not be its
choice, and rest in its holy self.
* * * * *
She has sent for me. I go to her. I will not think beforehand what I
shall say.
Something within tells me that a word from her would explain all that
sometimes even now seems so inexplicable as hers. Will she speak that
word? Shall I pray her for that word? I know nothing. The pure Will be
done!
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