Ingelow_Fated_to_be_Free.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
beside. can lay them down,
where lose them? there any healing to be found other than in
sympathy, forgiveness who made our nature one with to raise it
to ?"
world is not little. is not mean. spreads itself in
aspiration, it has possession through its hope. inhabits all
remoteness that the eye can reach; it inherits all sweetness that the
ear can prove; always bereaved of the whole, it yet looks for a whole;
always clasping its little part, it believes in the remainder.
, too often, like a bird it gets tangled in a net which
notwithstanding it knew of. must fly with broken wings ever alter.
, worse, it is tempted to descend, as the geni into the vase, for a
little while, when sealed down at once unaware, it must lie in the dark
so long, that it perhaps denies the light in heaven for lack of seeing
it.
those who have the most satisfying lot that life can give are to
breathe freely, they must get through, and on, and out of it.
because it is too small for us, but too great, it bears so many
down. the whole that vast mass of us which inherits its narrowest
portion, tethered, and that on the world's barest slope, does best.
rich and the free have a choice, they often choose amiss. no
choice can (excepting for this world) be irretrievable; and that same
being for whom the great life of the world proved too much, learns often
in the loss of everything, what his utmost gain was not ordained to
teach.
wanted all, and at last he can take that all, without which nothing
can make him content. perceives, and his heart makes answer to, the
yearning above; he recognises the wonderful upward drawing
with love and fear.
" is !
moves me so, to take of what lacks;
want is 's desire to give; yearns
add to life, and so for aye
it enough."
.
.
" fairy woman maketh moan,
'-a-day, and well-a-day,
brought thee one rose, one,
and thou didst cast my rose away.'
! hark, she mourneth yet,
' good ship--the good ship sailed,
bright star, at last it set,
one, one chance, forsooth it failed.'
"' thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes,
show thy face as thee beseems,
yet is starlight in the skies,
weird woman piteous through my dreams,
',' she mourns, 'forsooth not now,
veiled sit for evermore,
is shed, and charmed prow
shall not touch the charmed shore.
" thy sons that were to be,
thy small gamesome children play;
all loves that men foresee
straight as wands enrich the way.
-eyed, fair, with me they wonn
where enthroned reign a queen,
the lovely realms foregone,
in the lives that might have been."
glad to-morrow for never came. the time when he should
have reached , a letter summoned his brother to .
and had delayed their return, for , whether
from excitement at the hope of setting off, or from the progress of his
disease, had been attacked, while sitting out of doors, with such sudden
prostration of strength that he was not got back again to the house
without the greatest difficulty. opened a wide window of the "great
parlour," laid him on a couch, and then for some hours it seemed
doubtful whether he would rally.
was very calm and quiet about it, did not at all give up hope, but
assented when his sister said, " write to . to come to
you?" and sent a message in the letter, asking his brother to bring his
wife and child.
seemed to be much better when they arrived, and for two or three days
made good progress towards recovery; but the doctors would not hear of
his attempting to begin his journey, or even of his rising from the bed
which had been brought down for him into the wide, old-fashioned
parlour.
so it came to pass that found himself alone about midnight
with , after a very comfortable day of little pain or
discomposure. the old intimacy had returned now, and more than the
old familiar affection. was full of hope, which was all the
stronger because did not himself manifest that unreasonable
hopefulness which in a consumptive patient often increases as strength
declines.
will was signed, and in his brother's keeping; all his affairs were
settled.
" know," he had said to his brother, "that have entirely brought this
illness on myself. was perfectly well. often think that if had
never come here should have been so still. had my choice; had my
way. if recover, as there seems still reason to think may,
hope it will be to lead a higher and happier life. even some
day, though always repenting it, may be able to look back on this
fault and its punishment of illness and despondency with a thankful
heart. showed me myself. foresee, almost possess such a feeling
already. seems to have been 's way of bringing me near to .
feel as if could not have done without it."
said these words before he fell asleep that night, and ,
as he sat by him, was impressed by them, and pondered on them. young
a man seldom escapes from the bonds of his own reticence, when speaking
of his past life, his faults, and his religious feelings. was not
like . was changed, but that, considering what he had
undergone, did not surprise a man who could hope and believe anything of
him, so much as did his open, uncompromising way of speaking about such
a change.
" yet it seems strange," added, after a pause, "that we
should be allowed, for want of knowing just a little more, to throw
ourselves away."
" hardly believe that it was in us, any of us, to throw
ourselves away," answered, "if we were always warned to the
point of prevention."
sighed. " suppose we cannot have it both ways. ,
because man is such a sinner, so overruled and overawed him that no
crime could be committed, he would be half-unconscious of the sin in his
nature, and would look up no more either for renewal or forgiveness.
obliged to abstain from evil could not feel that their nature was lower
than their conduct. have wished, , as often have done
lately, that could have my time over again, have felt consoled, in
knowing this could not be, to recollect how on the consciousness of the
fault is founded the conscious longing for pardon. will tell you
more of all this to-morrow," he added; and soon after that he fell
asleep.
nurse was to have watched with him that night, but could not
sleep, and he desired that she should rest in an adjacent room till he
called her. the meantime, never more hopeful since he had first seen
on reaching , he continued to sit by his bed,
frequently repeating that he would go up-stairs shortly, but not able to
do it.
one o'clock woke, and , half excusing himself for
being still there, said he could not sleep, and liked better to wake in
that room than anywhere else.
was very wakeful now, and restless; he took some nourishment,
and then wanted to talk. sorts of reminiscences of his childhood and
early youth seemed to be present with him. could not be still, and at
length proposed to read to him, and brought the lamp near,
hoping to read him to sleep.
was but one book to be read to a sick man in the dead of the
night, when all the world was asleep, and great gulfs of darkness lurked
in the corners of the room.
read, and felt that was gradually growing calmer.
almost thought he might be asleep, when he said--". , there's no
air in this room."
" must not have the windows open," answered .
" me those last words again, then," said , "and let me look
out; it's so dark here."
read, " fulness of that filleth all in all."
asked to have the curtain drawn back, and for more than an
hour continued gazing out at the great full moon now rapidly southing,
and at the lofty pear-trees, so ghostly white, showering down their
blossom in the night. also sat looking now at the scene, now at
him, till the welcome rest of another sleep came to him; and the moon
went down, leaving their shaded lamp to lighten the space near it, and
gleam on the gilding of quaint old cabinets and mirrors, and frames
containing portraits of dead , not one of whom either of these
brothers had ever seen.
sat deep in thought, and glad to hear breathing so
quietly, when the first solemn approaches of dawn appeared in the east;
and as he turned to notice the change, woke, and gazed out
also among the ghostly trees.
" he is," said , in his usual tone of voice.
" is?" asked .
" father--don't you see him walking among the trees? came to see my
uncle-- told you so!"
was inexpressibly startled. leaned neared, and looked into
's wide-open eyes, in which was no sign of fear or wonder.
", you are half asleep, you have been dreaming," he presently said,
in a reassuring tone. " up, now; see how fast the morning dawns."
made him no answer, but he looked as usual. was nothing
to bespeak increased illness till he spoke again, faintly and
fast--"--did he bring ?"
then perceived with alarm that he was not conscious of his
presence--took no notice of his answer. leaned down with sudden and
eager affright, and heard murmur--" thought he would have let
me kiss her once before went away."
started from his knees by 's bed as this last faint
utterance reached him, and rushed up-stairs to his wife's room with all
the speed he could command.
, so fast asleep! her long hair loose on the pillow. fair she
looked, and how serene, in her dimpled, child-like beauty!
", love!--wake up, love! want you, ."
opened her startled eyes, and turned with a mother's instinct to
glance at her little child, who was asleep beside her, looking scarcely
more innocent than herself.
", make haste! is very ill. want you to come to him.
's your dressing-gown?--why here. you awake now? is it, do
you ask? , cannot tell--but fear, fear."
rushed down-stairs again, and was supporting 's head with
his arm when appeared, and stopped for one instant in the
doorway, arrested by some solemn words. it be that
spoke? was a change in his voice that startled her, and as she
came on her face was full of tender and awe-struck wonder.
" fulness of ," he said, "that filleth all in all."
looked up, and in the solemn dawn beheld her advancing in her
long white drapery, and with her fair hair falling about her face.
looked like one of those angels that men behold in their dreams.
's eyes were slowly closing.
" him, my life!" said , and she came on, and kneeling beside
him put her sweet mouth to his.
did not have that kiss!