loving housekeeper had not planted her "kissing bush" in the drawing-room, Fenton would probably never have kissed Miss Masters; if he had not kissed her then, he would most likely never have married her; if he had not married her, his eldest son would not have led a relieving army to the aid of a besieged city in India, and his youngest would not have preached those stirring sermons in the East of London, which created so much remark and did so much good a year or two ago. Although the world seems full to overflowing, it would have been incomplete without the Fentons. That kiss under the mistletoe at Sidbree House was part of the working scheme of life's great play. If that portion of the drama which is performed on earth were anything more than the prologue to the story which is concluded in heaven, it might have been better that Ruth should have married Fenton. But they who suffer most in these early scenes below, have proportionate bliss in the world to come. If the millennium were not contrary to the Apostolic Epistles, I could rejoice in the fancy of a thousand years on earth with Ruth, under the benign and righteous government of the Heavenly King. It would be bliss indeed to wander with Ruth back to Tokeston Abbey and that hayfield in the valley. There is no warrant whatever for this notion of a millennium. The Scriptures are full of references to spiritual bodies and spiritual blessings, and nothing is said of a temporal reign upon earth. Papias was the author of this unscriptural doctrine. Irenæus and Justin Martyr followed in the same line; and I confess Irenæus is ingenious in his interpretation of Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Daniel in favour of a temporal and earthly kingdom. He finds encouragement, also, in the mouth of Christ himself, when He declared that He would drink of the fruit of the vine with His disciples in His Father's kingdom. Thus He will, Irenæus argues, "renew the face of the earth" according to David. He promised, says the Father, to drink of the fruit of the vine with His disciples, thus indicating both these points-the inheritance of the earth in which the new fruit of the vine is drunk, and the resurrection of His disciples in the flesh. For the new flesh which rises again is the same which also received the new cup. This fruit of the vine could not belong to a super-celestial place; nor could they who drank it be devoid of flesh, for to drink of that which flows from the vine pertains to flesh and not to spirit. This idea of a flesh-and-blood reign springs out of our mere earthly nature. Christ certainly never promised it according to my interpretation of His Word. There are other worlds besides this sin-stained earth of ours; other worlds, where vines may grow yielding nectar; other worlds, studded with heaven-built mansions. St. Augustine's description of the heavenly land is a happy dream of endless spring, perpetual roses and lilies shining in the sun, green meadows and unbroken boughs of heavy fruitage, and an atmosphere filled with incense of strange, subduing odours. Ah, dear friends, we make our own heaven and hell. St. Augustine's heaven, with its fragrant flowers, and honey-sweet rivers, and cities of never-dying light, would be hell to me without that one dear soul who could make almost a heaven of hell itself; if hell there be in that hard and bitter sense of physical pain which some of the Fathers plead for so earnestly. I tell my faithful flock that all the fire and brimstone in the world burns not sharper than a guilty conscience perpetually excited by remorse. Weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, may have other sources than physical pain; though far be it from me to take the pittance of the Church and not preach her doctrine. I do not tell my congregation that there is no hell. There are those to whom fire and brimstone is necessary. Dante's hell, and Milton's, give terrible force to the desire of some to reach the true heaven; but the fairly-balanced mind may see all the metaphorical terrors of hell in broken faith, ingratitude, sordidness, and friendship disregarded. "A world where sin and truth are seen thoroughly; you want no other hell," saith some modern divine, carrying one to a similar thought in Young, who describes hell something after the manner of him who said, "Hell is-truth seen too late." It is full knowledge of the truth, When Truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe, And calls Eternity to do her right. Let us get back to that Christmas Eve at Sidbree House. It is the parson's privilege to preach. I shield myself behind my gown. Yet do I not feel as a parson ought. I question if I should be considered orthodox by the bishop. In a large city I might be goaded into controversy, and bring a scandal on the Establishment. I am only fit for this dreamy Valley of Poppies, where I can walk in imagination with my love, and wait until I am called to that promised land, of which my soul has had many a dazzling and bewildering glimpse. Ring out, O bells of Yule! I follow two figures in the moonlight, with the music of your clamorous voices in their hearts. They pass through the ghostly hall of Sidbree House into the frosty air. Their footsteps echo on the winter-bound road. It is George Himbleton taking Ruth Oswald home on that Christmas Eve when she named the day for their wedding. Mr. Canon Molineau offered to take Ruth in his brougham, as he took Mrs. Stamford and Fenton, to drop them on his way to Bachelor Hall, on the hill. But he relented at a glance from me, and Ruth's timely plea that she had only a few yards to go, and the walk would do her good. Dear Ruth! I pressed her shoulder while I gathered her cloak about her, and put the fur hood round her sweet face. Ring out, O tender bells of Yule! I remember how your echoing strains clasped us round about. We crept along in the shadow of the old Cathedral, and saw the moon among the naked branches of the elms. In these later days my mind has often mingled thoughts of Darthula with that Christmas Eve under the moon. I seem to taste the bitter sweet of that story. I look back upon the silence of the moon's calm face. I see the stars turn aside their green, sparkling eyes, and I feel within me the soul of Nathos. Darthula with the dark brown hair, thou art lovely as the sunbeam of heaven; fallen are the friends of thy youth. But there was only the mirth of the bells in my heart on that night. I was happy beyond all description. Ruth leaned on my arm, and laid her head on my shoulder. The cold wind of winter came in our path, but there was the summer of love in our cheeks. Ruth removed her hood, she was so warm; and I kissed her as she pushed the fur mantle from her face. I felt her hand trembling in mine. I saw in the soft, sweet smile, the deep, earnest look of that summer time in the Tokeston meadows. When we stood within the Deanery porch she said, "Early in the New Year, George ;" and then the bells rang out a new peal of hopefulness and joy. I stood outside the well-remembered house after we parted in the porch; stood and saw the lights wander from room to room, until they all disappeared, except one in Ruth's own chamber; and, while I stood there in a dream of happiness, the light went out, the blind moved aside, and I saw her dear face peer out into the night, as if her thoughts were following me home. I took her image with me through the quiet streets. I set it in a framework of bright and tender fancies. The bells accompanied my thoughts, and repeated her words, "Early in the New Year, George." The famous Monk of Cluny was rightthe bells say whatever you wish them to say. CHAPTER XV. 66 UNTIL DEATH US DO PART." THERE are only three bells in the old tower of my church in the valley. They were made in the early days. There is an inscription upon them in Lombardic characters. Their music is generally solemn. It wails. You can hear it wandering up and down the valley on Sundays. The last time Masters came into the valley we ascended the tower and interpreted the ancient inscription. It ran thus: Repent ye all, While I do call. This is the message of each individual bell: a solemn warning. I hear the words very plainly now, and my parishioners hear them But they are time-serving, fickle bells. Though they are only three, with three notes, I have heard them say many things besides too. Repent ye all, While I do call. The other morning there was a wedding in the parish, and the bells were quite merry over it. They kept up the old story told by Rabelais. There is a spell upon them. They are to say whatever mortals wish them to say. Wonderful music, this oracular and speech-like music of the bells! With what terrible power Poe made them clash and clang. He was a bell-ringer in a thousand. Scott's midnight bell startling the echoes of Northumbrian rocks is a solemn thing, but the submerged bells of Tintagel, they are haunting; their story is a soul-searching tale. Cowper's Bells "in cadence sweet" have a sympathetic power over the memory; and the poet of these latter days who set a-ringing that thrilling peal at Christmas, hath he not learnt the secret of the bells? But for a sweet and tender reflection, a heart-searching and appealing thought about bell music, I turn to the most melodious of singers : Those pleasant hours have passed away, And hears no more those evening bells. I suppose these lines are known to nearly every man, woman, and child in the land. There is a deep, fervent human pulsation in them which sometimes takes hold of me and buries my face in my hands. At last the future comes to my aid. Moore left out of his poem the sweeter bells that ring above the world, the heavenly music of the better land. The old bell-founders never forgot this. Their inscriptions always direct the thoughts of the earthly pilgrim to the better land. I understand the bells. We understand each other. Sometimes I think there are spirits among them. It is an ancient thought, full of poetic fancy and mystery. The passing bell in old times was rung just as the soul was parting from the body, to scare away the fiends. went to do his There is a story told in the valley that a hundred years ago, on the death of a wicked squire who had oppressed the poor, a fiend took possession of the passing bell. When the ringer solemn office he found the demon sitting on the bell. A dozen strong men went to pull the rope, but ten thousand men could not have overpowered that terrible shape. Pensax may be said to have matriculated for similar honours; we shall see how far he progressed by and by. We have the authority of his wife for saying that Pensax had good impulses. None of us are all bad. Even those miserable Triggs, I dare say, have their generous moments when the divine light glimmers through their darkened natures. There must be a marvellous sensation of delight and glory in the jubilatory clashing and hammering and clanging and joyful turbulence of a grand marriage peal. To be a bridegroom bearing away from the altar the woman of your choice amidst flowers and cheering and the strains of the Wedding March; to see your horses prancing, and to hear the bells pealing out; to know that you will carry that sweet maiden to a noble home, to offer her luxury and pomp ; to give her all that the imagination can paint and the heart desire. Riches do not always give happiness, it is true. Very often they do not. That is because riches do not always fall into good hands. God makes some people rich to show His heavenly contempt of wealth. Oh if I could have played the prince to Ruth! I would have had Wulstan covered with roses. She should have had an atmosphere of perfume distilled for her. The bells should have rung such peals as ear never heard. She should have had such pageantry as even the days of the Wulstan priors could not have equalled. And at the end she should have been received at her own castle with a cloud of servitors, amidst a blaze of trumpets. The rivers should have run wine. No extravagance in invention could have been equal to what my soul would have offered her. I know how worldly this is; I know that it is wrong, that it is sinful-as sinful as the Captain's defiance of the warning billows of Tintagel; I should have done it, nevertheless. Perhaps a kind and gracious Providence has afflicted me in consequence. We sin in imagination as well as in act. My poor dear Ruth! The bells did not ring at our wedding. It was thought best that we should go quietly to church, and keep our joy to ourselves; and I question if all the bells on earth had rung, and all the fountains spouted champagne, whether we should have been any happier. We were married in the old parish church where I preached my first sermon. The spring sunshine streamed in through the open doorway. There never was a more |