THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

SEPTEMBER, 1871.

THE VALLEY OF POPPIES. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTOPHER KENRICK" AND "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON."

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE FIRELIGHT.

T is autumn in the valley. I sit at my desk in the firelight. The river is hurrying by, with great bubbles of foam on its brown bosom. The trees are bare. A dark mist hangs over the valley. I sit at my desk in the firelight. I am familiar with death. I fear it not. There is nothing to fear in a change which perfects our hopes and aspirations. This is autumn. I am in the sere and yellow leaf. Next comes winter-quiet, and still, and white, and withered. Then spring-fresh, and pure, and full of sweet breath. There They say death is not so sad

are those who find terror in oblivion. a thing in itself, but that it is ruthless in blotting out the memory of us. To many persons it is painful-the feeling which Homer expresses in likening the generations of mankind to leaves. They are born, they wither, they die, and are succeeded by others. The simile does not hold good. The soul cannot be likened unto a leaf. The soul only sojourns on earth. It is a prisoner

CC

here. Death makes it free; and, so it hath met its fellow soul below, of what value is remembrance on earth? I wandered among the graves this morning; wandered through God's acre in the valley. Gray's poem was in my mind, and his lament over "mute, inglorious Miltons" struck me as incongruous. Is it not better that the bud of genius should blossom in heaven, rather than upon the earth? Every good thing is perfected and made complete in the promised land. Love is heaven-born. It is typified in the lark which, catching its inspiration direct from the skies, descends to its mate on the lowliest spot of earth. Death is only promotion. Instead of preparing for life, we should always be preparing for death; just as the people of the valley have been preparing for winter. They have gathered in the harvest. The wheat is stored in the barn. The apples are stacked for the press. The cattle are driven under cover. Doors are closed, and windows tightly fastened; for the autumn wind heralds the monarch of snow and ice.

It is good that we welcome him defiantly. The birth of Our Saviour came at a needful time. We had been forlorn, indeed, in December's darkest days without the Star of Bethlehem. It was a blessed ordination that the Sun of Christianity should shine out in the winter. It comes to us like the midnight sun of the icy regions, lighting up and beautifying what otherwise would be cold and gloomy. If the scheme of Christianity had done nothing more than institute the feast of Christmas, it would have deserved well of all mankind.

That Christmas which comes next in my memory after the last chapter of my reminiscences is a happy, hallowed time. I sit at my desk in the firelight, and enact the scenes again. The autumn wind sings a mournful accompaniment to my memory. Familiar shadows come and go in the room; and I know that the rose which she gave me long ago is lying in my drawer, filling it with the fragrance of that undying perfume which is the emblem of true love.

It was Christmas Eve. We had dined at the Old House-Ruth, Mr. Molineau, Mrs. Stamford, Ernest Fenton, and Masters and his sister. Fenton was a young man of considerable literary reputation, who was visiting some friends at Wulstan. My father had met him several times. This was my first introduction to him. Masters was a college friend whose home was in Wulstan. His sister was about Ruth's age. Fenton was evidently fascinated by Ruth. I noticed this early in the evening. His homage was flattering to myself. rejoiced to see her admired. I pitied Fenton for the moment, that there was only one Ruth Oswald. Courtesy gave Mr. Molineau the

I

honour of taking her in to dinner. I took Miss Masters, and sat opposite Ruth. I never was jealous, except as a boy; and then my jealousy only extended to the flower that lay in her bosom, or the wind that kissed her cheek or brushed aside her dark brown hair. Jealousy is the offspring of a vulgar mind. It is begot of selfishness and envy. "It is cruel as the grave," saith Solomon; "the evils thereof are coals of fire, which have a most vehement flame." Masters sat beside Ruth-happy privilege!

The time went rapidly. Mr. Molineau studiously avoided any reference to the past. He was a kind-hearted man. The proverb about not mentioning the gallows in the company of a man whose father was hanged, was not made for such men as the Rev. Canon Molineau. Mrs. Stamford had most need of proverbs. She raised the ghost of the poor Dean at our feast. Mr. Molineau, however, exorcised the vision at once. Now and then the shadow of the past fell heavily upon Ruth. The Minor Canon was always ready with a genial smile and a pleasant remark at the proper moment. When the ladies had retired, my father turned the conversation into the channel which Mrs. Stamford had been aiming at.

"It is a sorry Christmas for poor Miss Ruth," my father said ;" and it was very kind of you, Mr. Molineau, to protect her from Mrs. Stamford's active reminiscences of the past."

"Poor Mrs. Stamford; her sensibilities have been somewhat blunted-somewhat blunted," said the Canon, his last words coming forth like an echo. "But she is a very estimable woman, Mr. Himbleton."

"I am sure she is, Mr. Molineau," said my father.
"What a charming girl Miss Oswald is," said Fenton.

"I don't think I ever saw so much beauty combined with such an evidence of intellect."

"Yes, you may say that, indeed," said Masters.

"And Fenton is a judge of beauty, too, I suppose. Gentlemen who live in London, and mix in literary society, and with fashionable life, have opportunities of seeing fine women which we poor countrymen do not possess-do not possess," said Mr. Molineau.

"I am not so sure of that," said my father. "I will back this county of Wulstan against all the world for pretty women. Pass the wassail, George. I only introduce this as a matter of form, gentlemen," continued my father, pointing to a smoking bowl which a servant had just placed upon the table. "We fulfil all the proper observances of Christmas; but, somehow, George and I always prefer a drop of good port wine after dinner to anything else."

The bowl went round. Father Christmas was duly honoured. We wished everybody all the happiness of the season.

"You took it to the ladies first ?" said my father to the servant. "Yes, sir; it has been in the drawing-room."

"And have we the privilege of following the ladies ?" exclaimed Fenton. "Then, excuse me, Mr. Himbleton, I will drink again.” "That is a tribute to Miss Ruth," said Mr. Molineau. "You must beware of Mr. Fenton, George."

"Oh, lies the wind in that quarter?" said Fenton, laughing. "Is it serious?"

"Serious," said my father, "very serious."

"I congratulate you, Mr. George," said Fenton. "May you have many happy Christmases with the prettiest girl in the world." "Hear, hear," said Masters and my father,

"Amen," said the Canon.

"And now let us change the

"Thank you, Mr. Fenton," said I. subject"-for, though I felt proud of Ruth's beauty, I did not care to have it canvassed in this way.

"Your friend Pensax has just given another window to the Chapter," said Mr, Molineau, "and he talks of charging himself with the cost of restoring the west front of the Cathedral-yes, the west front of the Cathedral. The information was given to me just as I was coming here—just as I was coming here."

"What a strange mixture of liberality and meanness that man presents," said Masters. "He gives a Christmas dinner to a hundred poor families to-morrow, and I dare be bound he has cold mutton at home."

"Kind man, Mr. Pensax," I said, imitating Trigg.

Ah, very good, George," said the Canon; "that is Trigg, his lieutenant, his aide-de-camp, his fidus Achates."

"His particeps criminis," said my father, holding up a glass of port to the candle. "Now, Mr. Molineau, I want your opinion of this wine."

"You shall have it," said the Canon. "Particeps criminis is very good, very good. There never was a more curious association than that of the Triggs and Pensax. Mrs. Trigg has become quite a woman of importance in Wulstan-yes, quite a woman of importance. She dispenses Mr. Pensax's alms; and it appears to me that Trigg has nothing else to do but to go about saying, 'Mr. Pensax is a kind man.' It is very odd, very odd."

The Minor Canon tasted the wine during these remarks; tasted, and refilled his glass; passed it on, and said—

"Excellent; very good indeed. Just old enough to have retained the delicate flavour of the grape, without its grossness; a very excellent wine, full of character; yes, full of character."

"No reflection upon your port, Mr. Himbleton," said Fenton, as he tasted the fresh bottle, "it is very fine; but all ports are doctored now. The custom began with the English themselves. They persuaded the innocent foreigner to add brandy during fermentation, and elderberries to give colour."

"There is one thing you Londoners do not understand," said Masters, "and that is port wine."

"It is because we understand it that we do not drink so much as you do in the country; and, for my part, I think we should all be better without it. Pure port does not exist."

"Taste again," said my father, who prided himself upon his port. "Except at the Old House of Sidbree," said Fenton, promptly, and bowing courteously to my father.

At this moment the Christmas bells clashed out from half a dozen towers and steeples.

"Gentlemen," said my father, "Christmas may almost be said to have arrived. I do not wish to hurry you, but Mr. Molineau is anxious to join the ladies."

The genial Canon laughed at this mild sally, finished his wine, and said he was quite ready.

"Now, Mr. Masters, no heel-taps, sir; your Oxford education is not worth much if it tolerates heel-taps."

The bells rang out with wonderful power.

“Grand old bells," said my father, "they make one feel young again. Come, gentlemen, let us join the ladies, and believe ourselves boys once more."

It was a quaint old drawing-room. We rarely entered it. My father's guests, both ladies and gentlemen, preferred his studio. There was a freedom from all kinds of restraint in the paintingroom. Moreover, the men always smoked there unless there were ladies present, and then they smoked sometimes. The drawing-room was a quaint old room, hung with pictures in every part of it; not water colours, as is the fashion nowadays, but with oil paintings. The two bow windows were covered with heavy drapery. An old mirror over the mantel-shelf made a long avenue of pictures and candles. It reminded me, on this evening, of a magician's glass that I had read of, wherein you could see the future. Our housekeeper had so completely surrounded it with holly that no frame was visible. All you could see was a cluster of holly