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The Old Stone House

A >> Anne March >> The Old Stone House




"You have done well, dear," said Aunt Faith; "I have seen your
struggles, and rejoiced over your victories. I have confidence in you,
Bessie, and if I am called away, I can leave the children in your
charge with an easy heart."

"They are no longer children, Aunt Faith."

"True! Gem is thirteen, but she will need watchful care for many years
yet. And Tom, although tall and strong, is still a thorough boy at
heart, and the next five or six years are full of danger for him."

"Tom is a fine fellow," said Bessie warmly; "he is full of generosity
and courage."

"Yes, but there are corresponding dangers for his sanguine
temperament. However, although still young, he has an earnest faith;
Hugh's death was a lesson which he will never forget, and all though
he may often go astray, I feel sure he will _come_ back again at the
last. Gem, too, is one of the lambs of the flock; she has improved
greatly the past year. I have had deep cause to be thankful, and I am
thankful," said Aunt Faith, folding her hands reverently. "The
children Thou gavest to me are all Thine; Thou hast cared for them and
brought them to a knowledge of Thy goodness. One hast Thou taken, the
dearest of all; taken him away from trouble to come. Lord, I thank
Thee, for all Thy goodness." As Aunt Faith murmured these words, she
leaned back in her chair and closed her own heart in silence.

After a few moments, Bessie went out on the piazza to welcome Mr.
Leslie and Sibyl as they came up the walk.

"Aunt Faith is resting in her chair," she said, smiling; "we will sit
out here, if you please. How well you look, Sibyl!"

Mrs. Leslie threw off her bonnet, and the light shone in her golden
hair. She looked well, better than she had ever looked as Sibyl
Warrington; for, although her skin had lost something of its extreme
delicacy, her face had gained in animation, and her manners in
cordiality, so that people who could not love her before, loved her
now with sincere affection. Her beautiful hair was coiled gracefully
around her head, and she was dressed with as much care as ever, for
Sibyl was Sibyl still, and could no more change her love for harmony
and taste than the leopard could change his spots. But everything
_was_ simple, inexpensive, and fashioned by her own fingers, so that
although all admired, not even the most censorious could find fault
with the appearance of the pastor's wife.

Mr. Leslie, too, was somewhat altered; he looked well and vigorous,
but his manner was more gentle. The poor said he was more
compassionate, the sick said he was more gentle, his congregation said
he was more eloquent; Hugh's death and Sibyl's sorrow had not been
without their lessons for him, also.

The little chapel was still poor and struggling, but husband and wife
worked together with heart and strength. Sibyl was invaluable; she
threw her system, her energy, and her tact into the week-day work, and
her husband found his Sunday labors doubly successful, because they
were followed up and carried out during the six working days as well
as on the day of rest.

"I have had a letter from Mrs. Stanly, to-day, Bessie," said Mr.
Leslie; "she says little Hugh is beginning to talk, and already can
say 'Aunt Bessie.' He associates you with the Noah's Ark you sent him.
Here is his picture, enclosed in the letter." The photograph
represented a chubby boy with large, wondering eyes and curly hair.

"Brave little man!" said Sibyl, looking over Bessie's shoulder. "What
a wonder he lived through that night!"

"Oh, Hugh held him up out of the water most of the time," said Bessie
quickly; "the mother told me that his little knitted shirt was
scarcely wet at all. I must certainly go East to see the child next
spring, now that his father is dead, I feel more at liberty to assist
Mrs. Stanly, and, between us, we are going to give little Hugh the
best education the country will allow."

"Is that you, Sibyl?" said Aunt Faith's voice within.

"Yes, aunt. Shall we come in?" said Mrs. Leslie, rising.

"No, dear, I will come out;" and Aunt Faith joined the group on the
piazza, taking her seat in an arm-chair.

"What a beautiful afternoon!" she said, "and how brilliant those
maple-leaves are! Have you seen the monument, John?"

"No," answered Mr. Leslie; "is it in place?"

"Yes, the work was all finished this morning, and Bessie and I went
over to look at it. Why not walk over now? We can all go, and these
lovely days cannot last long."

"I should like to go, John, if you have the time," said Sibyl.

"Yes; I can postpone the visit I intended to make. As Aunt Faith says,
these warm, still days cannot last long."

The cemetery was about half a mile distant, a forest glade sloping to
the lake, with a brook in a little ravine running through the centre.
But few graves were there, for the land was but newly consecrated to
its use, but the great forest-trees were old, and in the spring, wild
flowers grew everywhere, and wild birds sang in the foliage. Now, the
trees were dyed in scarlet and gold, and the colored leaves dropped
slowly down upon the ground, for the air was still and hazy with the
purple mists of Indian summer. Hugh's monument stood on a little
eminence overlooking the lake. It was of marble, a slender shaft
broken at the top, with a profusion of roses growing over the broken
place, carved in the marble with life-like fidelity, so that the stone
itself seemed to have blossomed. Below, on one side of the base was
Hugh's name and age, and on the opposite face was the sentence, "I
shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."

"I like it;" said Mr. Leslie, standing with uncovered head beside the
grassy mound; "it expresses the idea of the broken young life, and the
roses of hope, faith, and even joy which have grown up to cover the
place."

"It is appropriate that it stands here overlooking the lake," said
Sibyl. "Hugh was so fond of the water, and, on this very lake he lost
his life,--gave it up for the sake of others."

"And _I_ like the monument on account of the sentence," said Bessie,
who sat by the side of the grave arranging a bunch of autumn leaves.

"The monument is only raised to Hugh's earthly memory," said Aunt
Faith. "Hugh is not here; I never feel that I am nearer to him here
than at home. But I like to honor the place where his mortal body
lies, and I like to think when I die, those who love me will likewise
honor my grave."

Bessie completed her wreath and laid it on the mound, and then they
all went back to the old stone house, quiet and thoughtful, but not
sad; the faith within their hearts was too earnest, and the hope too
bright for sadness.

After tea they sat together on the piazza; the night was warm, and the
full-moon shone through the haze, giving the landscape a magical
softness and beauty. Tom and Gem were there also, and at, Tom's feet
were the three dogs, Turk, somewhat sobered, Grip, less hilarious than
formerly, but Pete Trone, Esquire, as vivacious as ever, investigating
every corner of the garden as though he never saw it before, and
coming back after each foray with increased importance, the air of a
philosopher who had discovered all the secrets of the moonlight.
Friends came in and joined the family circle. Rose Saxon, Edith Chase,
who had become one of Bessie's firm friends, and Walter Hart. An hour
or two of pleasant conversation ensued, and Tom delivered some bright
sayings, retiring within the shadow, overcome with boyish
embarrassment when the company applauded him. Finally, when the
visitors had all gone, Aunt Faith rose; "I hope you will stay to
prayers, John," she said; "it is late, but the bright moonlight seems
to postpone the hour of sleeping."

"Yes, Aunt Faith," replied Mr. Leslie; "we will stay, and Sibyl can
play the hymn."

He read a chapter from the Bible, then they all sang a hymn and knelt
a few moments in prayer. With affectionate farewells, they parted for
the night, Sibyl and her husband going home through the moonlight, and
the others separating to their respective rooms.

As Bessie stood before her dressing-table, brushing out her thick
curls, she noticed the lines about her mouth, and the hollows in her
temples. "I am growing old," she thought, with a half-smile, "and yet,
I am only seventeen. How long this year has been; it is like a
lifetime. But yet, it has been a precious year; it has taught me hope
and peace, I shudder when I think how I felt a year ago."

Going across the room, she lifted a little curtain which hung before a
picture; the frame contained only a fragment of paper, and through the
glass the faint pencilled words of Hugh's last message could be seen.
"Bessie, try to be good, dear. I love you." Bessie read the words over
several times, and then, dropping the little curtain, she fell on her
knees by the bedside, and prayed Hugh's prayer. "Lord I believe; help
Thou mine unbelief. Lord, be merciful to me a sinner."

Seasons of despondency came to Bessie Darrell; often her pillow was
wet with tears; often she was obliged to mourn over her shortcomings,
often she prayed in deep contrition for forgiveness of sins,--sins
belonging to her quick impulsive nature, besetting sins with which she
must struggle to the last. But she never lost her faith, she never
ceased to look forward to the other country. Through trouble, through
care, through sickness, through affliction, through life, and through
death she held fast to the hope that abideth forever. Busy and active,
she gave her time first to her Aunt Faith, then to Tom and Gem, and
afterwards to the poor and afflicted. She worked hard, and in the very
labor she found peace at the last; she tried to make others happy,
and, in the end, she found happiness for herself.

Aunt Faith sat by her table, thinking. She was thinking of her loved
ones, her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, her husband,
and last of all, of Hugh. "For the past month my strength has seemed
to fail; it may be that I am nearer home than I know," she thought.

"But all my times are in Thy hand, dear Lord, and whether I go soon,
or whether I must tarry many years longer, Thou knowest. Only grant me
Thy constant aid, for without Thee I can do nothing." She knelt in
prayer, prayed for her children as well as herself. Many tears had she
shed over them, many times of trial and apparent failure had darkened
her way since the five orphans were given into her charge. But the
promise was sure, and although this life may not be long enough for
the harvest, although the laborer may see only the bud here on earth,
that bud will surely blossom and ripen into fruit in heaven.

"He that goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall
doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him."
Psalm CXXVI.

The faithful laborer toils on
In spite of present sorrow,--
He heeds not toil, he heeds not storm,
But labors for the morrow;
To him the harvest comes in overflowing measure,
To him the fields pour out their overflowing treasure.

He that goeth on his way
Bearing seed, though weeping,--
Shall doubtless come again with joy
Loaded from the reaping,
Loaded with the precious sheaves of faith, and hope,
and love,
Bearing them, rejoicing, to his Father's house above.

There is quiet now in the old stone house. One of its inmates has gone
from earth; one has gone to another home, and those who are left under
the roof are all sleeping. The soft moonlight shines on the gray
walls, caressing them as though it loved them. Dear old house! thy
rooms are haunted with memories of happiness, and hallowed with
memories of sorrow. We leave thee regretfully, and turn back again and
again as we go, for a last

FAREWELL!

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