CHAPTER X. Elverton Rectory, January 6th. How many weeks have passed since I wrote anything in this book, so many that autumn leaves have drifted quite away, and the snows of winter lie whitely upon the lawn, and on the church roof, and on that little row of cottages close by the churchyard, and on the uplands and meadows round us, and on this great mountain which looks down on Elverton village; while in the long still evenings we sit together, Philip and I, in this warm study, not reading, nor working, nor writing; but just thinking hand in hand, and heart to heart, of how good God has been to us. For we are very happy. Philip does not pet me much. I think nobody ever could do that; and he does not pour out upon me, either, a whole dictionary full of pretty names and endearing words; I can do without them. We want no caresses, no fine speeches, so long as we can look steady and true into the eyes of those we love, and find there nothing but love again a brave, earnest, unfailing love for us, and for us alone, to be our joy and crown through life. And this is what I find day by day—nothing else but this. We had a very quiet wedding, Philip and I, how I like to write those three little words-a very quiet one indeed, for Maud's sake. Very early that bright October morning, while the blue mist lay over Lingold Lake, and crept in and out among the woods, and while the sunshine flashed upon the dew-drops, and glanced upon the crimson leaves, and warmed the old grey church tower, we set off, papa, and Maud, and I. Philip and his friend were standing at the altar waiting for us--he with just the same steady, composed look I had learned to know so well, and to rest upon. There was not a creature in the church besides our own party, for we had taken care the day should not be known, and everything was so hushed and silent. Then the clergyman began. At first, I had no thoughts of any one but Philip; but by and by they reached to Maud too, standing by me. For when I turned and gave her my flowers to hold, there was a look of such high, commanding peace on her face,such an almost regal expression of self-containment and repose, with a strange glory in her eyes, as though, looking upward to things hidden from us, they saw that coming time when for her too, as for me then, should be realised the great hope of life. And when all was over, and Mr. Eden had said over me and Philip the solemn words "Whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder," it seemed to me that in the sight of Him who seeth things eternal and invisible they were said over others, and for others, than for us two even over Stephen Roden and Maud. For he was there watching us, standing very near us. I knew it so, and Maud knew it too. Mr. Lowe had asked me many times where I would like to go for our wedding journey. Mamma thought Scotland; papa, whose thoughts always turn in a literary direction, would have sent me into Germany; to Leipsic and Weimar. Where should we go, though, but to the place where we first met; where those grand old sweeping cliffs smile under the blue sky; where the ruined castle keeps watch upon its rocky eyrie; where the waves come swinging and flashing and sparkling on smooth, far-reaching sands. So to Scarbro' we went; to the north cliff again; not to the same house though; but to a quiet little cottage towards Scalby, far away beyond the other streets and crescents, where a steep, winding path led us down the cliff just opposite that long low range of rocks we both of us remember so well. Yes, both of us. For I like to think that he remembers all these things as well as I do. We were there two Sundays. The first of them we went to the old parish church, the same we had gone to, not together though, last year. We started very early, that we might walk about in the churchyard before the service began. We went to see Anne Brontë's grave again-there, nearly under the shadow of the old castle; and listened as we stood by it, to the low, restless murmur of the waves, so like the wail of her own sad, sorrow-laden life. Turning to go down towards another part, we found a grave marked out among all the others by a peculiar white-veined ivy, which wound over and interlaced the hillock. There was no headstone, no inscription of any sort, nothing but just a narrow ledge of granite all round to preserve the earth from falling away. It looked green, and fresh, and beautiful among the monotonous range of upright stones, as though belonging to one who even in death would be remembered by Nature rather than Art. There was something so pleasant in the look of that green and clasping ivy. Passing it, we asked the sexton's wife, who was standing near, to whom it belonged. She appeared to be a woman very fond of talking, and gave us the whole history. Let me write it down, just as she told it. It kept us standing there, over that ivy-bound hillock, with trembling hands, and eyes full of tears, long after the bells had ceased to chime, and the Psalms begun to peal out through the old church walls. "It was a lady, ma'am, as came unfortently to her end, nigh upon a twelvemonth past. She |
