As the Shadow of a Great Rock

Chapter I

Could I remount the river of my years, To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, I would not trace again the stream of hours Between their outworn banks of withered flowers. — Byron. The spring sun was shining brightly down on a little village in Buckinghamshire. A pretty village it was, consisting merely of half-a-dozen farm-houses, two or three retail shops, a sprinkling of labourers' cottages, interspersed with one or two houses of rather greater pretensions, a church, and a pretty rectory nestling in the trees behind it. The church and rectory were at one end of the village, and at the other end stood a small cottage — an old-fashioned dwelling with low roof and tiny diamond paned windows, and a rustic wooden porch, up which the ivy climbed, green and flourishing. The little garden in front, in which both vegetables and flowers had a place, was prettily laid out, and gave evidence of being carefully attended to by somebody who possessed both refined tastes and a keen sense of the beautiful.

In an upper room of the cottage, a woman lay on her deathbed. Outside Nature was putting on her fresh spring dress, the grass was springing green in the fields, and trees, and shrubs, and flowers, were bursting into new life and beauty — within the mortal was waiting to put on immortality, and burst into new life too. The fresh breeze came softly through the open window, and fanned the sufferer's forehead as she lay there, her hair clinging in loose, damp waves around her pallid brow, her large, dark eyes looking un naturally large above the sunken cheeks. Beside her bed a solitary watcher sat, a tall, slight youth of twenty — the dying woman's son, you could see at a glance. There were the same large, solemn eyes, the same pale, serious features, the same sweet, yet firm expression of the lips, the same dark waving hair.

But not in features alone was there a resemblance between them. The air of calm tranquillity, of sub missive patience, of peaceful serenity that shone forth from the mother's face was reflected in that of her son. Traces of emotion were there it is true, and a deep sorrow looked forth from the dark, mournful eyes, but it was emotion restrained, and held in check with a resolute self-repression, surprising in one so young. A Bible lay open upon his knee, but he was not reading. His head had fallen back against the bed, and he was gazing out through the open window with a dreamy, far-off look that told his thoughts were busy. His mother's eyes were fixed on him sadly, and presently she spoke. ' James,' she whispered. He started, and turned towards her ' Yes, mother,' he said. ' I want you to write to Mr Newton for me.' He rose from his seat at once, and went to the window, where on a little table stood an open writing desk.

He sat down before it. ' What shall I say ? ' he asked. ' Tell him that I am dying, and wish to see him. Ask him to come at once, and bring Frederick. A very few words will be sufficient ; he will not disre gard the summons.' The youth took up a pen, and began to write with trembling fingers. His mother was all in all to James. Deeper and tenderer even than the customary affection between parent and child was the love that bound them together. Mrs Forrester was a widow, and she had few left to care for her now, save this one beloved son. Another son she had, it is true, but he was away, and he had never loved and clung to her like James. Hers was a sad history. In her youth she had been the sunlight of a happy home, her mother's darling, her father's pride and joy. In this same quiet village she had been born, and here her childhood had been spent.

The pretty rectory among the trees had been her home in those days, for her father was then the rector of the parish. An earnest Christian man he was, and his people loved and venerated him as he de served. He lived his simple, blameless life among them, and not one of them could charge him with an inconsistent or unworthy action. His whole heart was in his work, and most faithfully and conscientiously did he discharge the duties of his office. In his own home he was a kind, considerate master, an affection ate husband, and an indulgent father. Beneath his wise influence and training his daughter grew up a lovely girl, content in her quiet country home, and asking no greater pleasure than to ac company her father on his frequent missions of charity, and assist him in ministering to the wants of those who needed his help.

Everybody loved her, and Margaret Vernon was as happy as the day was long. But the quiet tenor of her life was at last interrupted. Just out of the village there was a dilapidated old mansion called the Grange, standing in its own grounds, and owned by an old maiden lady of small income, who lived there almost alone, and allowed the place to fall to ruin as it might. When Margaret Vernon was about twenty years of age, there suddenly sprang up an excited rumour in the neighbourhood that Miss Holmes had sold the Grange, and that a rich London gentleman had purchased it, and was coming to live there. The rumour proved to be true. Geoffry Forrester, a wealthy city banker retiring from business, had taken a fancy to the place. It was just an easy distance from the metropolis, and the quiet country village, the pure air and pleasant scenery, had an at traction for him after the bustle of city life.

So a formidable army of workmen were engaged, and the old house was repaired and beautified, a new wing added, and all sorts of improvements made, until it presented quite an imposing appearance. The long neglected grounds were cared for, new gardens laid out, shrubs planted, and where slovenliness and decay had reigned before all was now order and beauty. Costly furniture was sent down from London ; and the interior of the house was made as beautiful as the exterior. Everything was of the most elegant and ex pensive description, for the banker was a man who liked to make a parade of his wealth, and impress everybody with a sense of his importance. When everything was completed, Air Forrester, his wife and son, came to reside there, and their luxurious way of living soon became a nine days' wonder in the neighbourhood.

The Grange was nearly always filled with company. The banker's friends were all very willing to accept his hospitality, and hosts of gay London visitors descended upon quiet Eastcott, startling the staid inhabitants out of all their equa nimity by their splendour and stylish ways. Dashing equestrians of both sexes went careering over the country on Mr Forrester's thoroughbreds, and elegantly dressed ladies came rustling up the aisle of the little church long after the service had com menced, creating quite a commotion, and disquieting the simple villagers at their prayers. Mr Forrester soon sought out and made friends with the rector. He had a great partiality for the society of clergymen, as rich plebeian business men are apt to have, and he speedily became on very intimate terms with Mr Vernon and his family.

Quiet, unassuming, and yet thoroughly a gentleman, the country clergyman was just the person to suit the pompous, purse-proud banker, and he found himself drawn into contact with his new neighbours rather more than he wished sometimes. The young people were thrown together, too, and it was not very long before the retiring modesty and simple beauty of the rector's daughter attracted the attention of young Forrester. Frederick Forrester was a dashing, handsome fellow, a vivid contrast in every way to the young men Margaret had hitherto as sociated with, and it is not surprising that the attraction proved mutual. In her inexperienced eyes the banker's son appeared all that was noble and highspirited. She saw the fair outside, she was fascinated by the gay, winning manners, and she never dreamt that aught of evil lurked within.

But she did not know his real character. Strange whispers went abroad concerning him that never reached her ears — dark tales of wild orgies with disre putable companions, of midnight revels, and scenes of dissipation, such as made the sober-going country people shudder with horror. His parents knew something of this, and they tried to reason with and restrain him, but it was too late now. Go and watch a tiny streamlet trickling from some mountain side. You can easily turn its course aside — you can even stem its progress with your hand ; but let the little stream flow on unchecked, and what does it become ? A mighty river, a rapid rolling flood, strong enough to sweep down every obstacle in its path, and lay waste villages and cities in its resistless course ! So it is with the human heart.

Curb the little budding vice that shows itself in your child's very babyhood, and that child may live to be an honour and a blessing to you ; but let the evil passion go on unchecked and unrestrained, and it gathers strength with every hour, and in the end may bring about its possessor's misery and ruin, and leave your old age childless and desolate. Frederick Forrester was perhaps only what his train ing and surrounding circumstances had made him. The only child of rich, fond parents, he had been in judiciously petted and indulged all his life. He had no legitimate outlet for his energies — nothing to do but to follow the bent of his own inclination, and it was scarcely any wonder under these circumstances that his inclination led him into evil ways. Among the numerous visitors at the Grange was a young city merchant named Oliver Newton, a nephew of Mr Forrester, who frequently came down to spend Sunday with his relatives.

Oliver Newton saw the rector's daughter in her father's seat at church ; he saw her occasionally, too, in her own home, and he fell in love with her in a headlong fashion that charac terised him in everything he did. His jealous eyes perceived the growing attachment between her and Frederick, and he determined to forestall his cousin if he could, and win her for himself. So he proposed to her almost before Frederick had any idea of the state of his own feelings towards her. He was gently but firmly declined. Frederick's handsome face had won the girl's susceptible heart, and she said No to her plainer, less fascinating suitor, without a moment's hesitation, and thought of him no more. Ah, she did not know how deep a wound her hand had unwittingly inflicted ! Mortified and humbled, Oliver Newton returned to London, a changed and disappointed being.

It is hard for a young, strong resolute man, accustomed to cope with, and overcome every obstacle in his path, to find before him a difficulty that he cannot surmount, and be beaten back by circumstances over which he has no control. Hitherto, Oliver Newton had been a sober, persevering, clear-headed man of business, striving with all his might to turn the talents he possessed to good purpose, to become prosperous and wealthy, and make himself a name in the world. Wounded in his affections, and disappointed in the hopes he had cherished, he returned to these pursuits now with redoubled ardour, determined to forget his trouble in the dis tractions of business, and vowing for the future to know no other ambition, no other object in life than the accumulation of wealth. And he kept his vow. Resolutely he shut his heart against all the tenderer and softer emotions, and went on in the way he had chosen, his every action regu lated by the passion that had become the ruling principle of his life.

A few years afterwards he married the daughter of an enormously wealthy man, a .merchant like himself, but he married her for her money, not because he cared for her. For a few years she lived with him, a miserable, feeble, ailing woman, bore him two daughters, and then died, and he did not regret her. There is no passion that closes the heart to all humanising influences like the lust of gold — no passion that makes a man more completely and helplessly its slave. Oliver Newton cared neither for his wife nor his children. He was so entirely engrossed with business cares and business anxieties that he had no time to spare for anything else. Meanwhile Margaret Vernon had become the wife of his cousin. Mr Forrester had disapproved of the match at first. ' Fred ought to marry a woman with money,' he said; but Fred had had his own way all his life, and after a show of opposition from his parents, he had it again now, and took his bride home to live with them.

He was not the husband the rector would have chosen for his daughter, but her heart was set upon the match. People make strange mistakes in life sometimes. There are times when the most yielding and pliant characters, who hitherto have been willing to be guided entirely by others, suddenly take the disposition of their future into their own hands, and make some decision that will affect their whole future life without one shade of misgiving or doubt. It was so with Margaret now. She disregarded her father's remonstrances, and decided for herself, without a fear as to the wisdom of her choice. The rector was not satisfied. He knew nothing of the rumours that were afloat respecting the young man, certainly, but he knew that he was careless and thoughtless, the worldly son of worldly parents, and he was grieved that Margaret should enter such a family.

Mrs Vernon was rather dazzled by the brilli ancy of her daughter's prospects; but with her husband it was different. Poor old man, the God of this world could not blind him to the girl's danger ! He thought of her spiritual welfare, and not all the wealth and prosperity of his new connections could reconcile him to the change. At first all went smoothly enough. Mr and Mrs Forrester were very kind to their new daughter, and her sweet temper won upon them more and more every day. At first, too, Frederick remained at home with his family, and in riding and driving out with his young wife, or sitting quietly by her side at home, seemed to forget the gay scenes and wild companions that had possessed such an attraction for him before. But as the novelty of Margaret's society wore off, he grew weary of the quiet of his home, and little by little returned to his old courses.

In time his wife found herself neglected and left alone very often, although she did not find out the cause of her husband's absences for some time. But gradually and surely the evil habits he had formed were gaining a greater and greater influ ence over him, and the evil companions he con sorted with were leading him deeper into sin. He grew to absent himself from home more and more, until even his parents could no longer close their eyes to the downward course he was pursuing. Then followed angry and passionate scenes between him and his father — stern threatening on the old man's part, sullen defiance on his. Over and over again his father paid his debts, and then warned him he would do so no more, and still he disregarded the warning, and went on as recklessly as ever. Margaret wept and suffered in silence.

A son was born, and in ithe sweet cares of maternity she found some slight solace, but she was very, very unhappy. Her parents were gone now ; they had both died shortly after her marriage, and she was thankful that it was so — thankful that they had not lived to know what everybody knew now. Two more years passed away — another son was born and then blow after blow fell on poor Margaret's heart. The banker and his wife passed away heart broken at their son's dishonour. Then Frederick came into possession of his father's wealth, and the money the old man had toiled to gain was squandered like water. He filled his house with his vile associates, and the old walls echoed to the sound of unholy revelry, and drunken, ribald laughter. Margaret bore it all patiently and uncomplainingly, and still as she advanced in life trials seemed to gather more thickly and darkly over her.

Ultimately the Grange was sold— the old home that she had learned to love, and she had to go forth and find a dwelling-place among strangers. While her husband lived she never knew another home. From place to place he dragged her, among scenes from which her pure nature shrank in fear and abhorrence, until at last, worn out with dissipation and disease, he died, and left her with barely enough remaining out of all the wealth he had inherited to provide for her wants at all. E

Chapter II

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience. — Longfellow. In her loneliness Mrs Forrester's heart turned to the home of her childhood, and she came back to live at Eastcott. She found a true friend in Mr Wyndham, the present rector of the parish. He had been her father's curate for many years, and the patron of the living, in consideration for his long and faithful services in the place, on the death of Mr Vernon appointed him as his successor. Mr Wyndham had known the widow in her happy girlhood, and when she came back to the village lonely, poor, and friendless, he was anxious to befriend her in every way he could. He insisted on having her sons at the rectory and educating them with his own ; and this was indeed a kindness, for Mrs Forrester out of her slender means was unable to give them such an education as she wished them to receive.

Several calm, uneventful years passed, and the two boys grew towards boyhood ; the elder handsome, quick-witted and fascinating like his father — the younger quiet and reserved, with his mother's delicate face and gentle ways. The widow often sighed as she looked at her first-born, and prayed that he might be kept from his father's evil ways. For he was wayward and wilful, impatient of control — im patient of his mother's loving councils. He was dis contented, too, and his proud spirit chafed at the poverty he had to endure — at the dull routine of his daily life — at the unchanging monotony of the quiet home in which he lived. His future was a source of deep thought and anxiety to his mother. High-spirited and ambitious as he was, she knew he would not be satisfied with any position that she could afford to place him in.

She prayed for guidance in her perplexity — prayed that God would show her what to do, and open a way for her out of her difficulty. And her prayers were answered. Sud denly, when Frederick was about eighteen years of age the question was solved for her in an unexpected way. One bright summer evening a stranger presented himself at the cottage, a grave-looking, middle-aged man, whom Mrs Forrester could net recognise as anybody she had ever seen before, although there seemed something familiar about him. It was Oliver Newton. By some means he had heard that she was living here, and he had longed to see her once more. He had never forgotten her. Through all these busy years the thought of her had been the one green spot in his hard, cold, worldly heart, and he had often recalled her bright, innocent beauty, and yearned to look upon her face again.

But what a change he found in her ! He had ever thought of her as he had seen her last in her bloom ing youth, and now he found her a faded, careworn woman, whose pale, pensive features bore the trace of bitter suffering. If he had found her looking bright and happy, and as beautiful as ever, he might have steeled himself against her, and gone away sullen and angry ; but as it was his heart softened at sight of her, and every feeling of resentment was forgotten. Mrs Forrester was glad to see him. She had thought of him in many a solitary hour, and wondered what had become of him ; and now he came to her bringing with him a thousand memories of the past, and stirring her heart with strange pleasure that was almost pain. For some days he lingered in the village, and they had many pleasant conversations together.

He asked her of the past, and she told him much of her history, palliating and concealing her husband's misconduct as well as she could. Then he told her in a few quiet words how deeply he had felt her rejection of him — how he had resolutely shut out all other love, and set his whole heart only upon prospering and growing rich. ' And I am rich,' he said ; ' richer even than men think me, for every speculation has prospered, and gold seems literally to have been showered upon me. But my life has not been such a happy one, for all that.' Mrs Forrester smiled sadly. 'Ah wealth never can bring happiness!' she said, ' and yet men labour and straggle to grow rich, and in their eager pursuit after wealth miss many a sweet, enduring joy, and forfeit many a holy, pure affection.' 'You are right,' returned her visitor. 'I have toiled and struggled as you say, and have neglected my home and my children.

If I were to die to-morrow, I don't suppose one single creature would care very much.' Mrs Forrester did not answer. He had spoken the last words in a musing tone more to himself than to her, and then for a time he was silent. ' If you had been my wife it might have been differ ent,' he said presently. ' Oh, do not say that ! ' she returned quickly ; ' do not let me think that any act of mine has laid waste a life that might otherwise have been a happy one ! I cannot bear that thought ! If I have wronged you, do not reproach me with it now, it is too late to repair the wrong.' ' Is it too late ? ' he asked, turning to her suddenly. ' Will you not come to me now, and brighten my home with your presence ? Your boys need a friend to look after them, and start them in life, and I will be a true and faithful father to them, believe me.' Mrs Forrester shook her head. ' It cannot be,' she returned. ' Dear friend, I am deeply grieved to give you pain, but it can never be.

I confess you tempt me when you speak of providing for my children, for I am deeply anxious about their future, but even for their sakes I cannot wrong you and myself by accepting your generous offer. I am not long for this world, I know. I feel that my life is drawing near its close, and I should only be a burden and a trouble to you, instead of the comforter and helper you would expect.' He took her hand. ' You do not care for me ? ' he said. ' Not as you would wish me,' she answered frankly. 1 Then I will not press you further. Forget that I ever mentioned the subject, but remember one thing : I will be a friend to your children all the same. Don't let the thought of their future trouble you any more. That shall be my care.' He kept his word ; and when he went back to London Frederick Forrester accompanied him.

He offered to find a place in his counting-house for both the youths, but Mrs Forrester could not consent to that. Frederick was wild with excitement at the idea of going to London ; and with an anxious heart his mother agreed to let him go ; but her younger son must remain with her, she said. ' I cannot part with both my children,' she told the merchant. 'James must stay with me the short time that I have to live. He would not wish to leave me here alone, I know.' So the elder son went to London and commenced the battle of life, and the younger remained behind with his mother. Four more years glided away, and Mrs Forrester's strength waned slowly, until it became evident to all around her that her days were numbered. In the interval Mr Newton had written to her more than once concerning James. 'Let the lad come to me,' he urged ; ' he will be a man very soon, and it is time he was being trained for his future position in the world.

If you cannot spare him, come with him. I can manage to find you a quiet little home, even in this busy place, where you can be near and watch over both your children.' But Mrs Forrester's reply was always the same. ' Bear with me,' she wrote in answer ; ' I shall not try your patience long. I cannot leave the dear old place where my childhood was spent, neither can I part with my boy.' No, she could not part with James. He was her one stay and comfort in her weakness and widowhood, and he grew a closer friend and dearer companion to her every day. He had always been a thoughtful and affectionate child, but of late years he had grown more devoted to her than ever. Her loving, earnest teaching and her good example had produced their effect. James's young, impressionable heart felt deeply the power and beauty of those sacred truths that could give such peace and comfort in affliction, and in time he was led to embrace them for himself.

His mother's God became his God ; the Divine light that illumined her chequered life shone into his soul also, and a new and tender sympathy sprang up between them such as they only know who walk together in fellowship with Christ. The youth knew of Mr Newton's repeated letters to his mother concerning himself, but he did not wish to leave her. He knew that when she was gone he must go to London, but he felt no such pleasure in the prospect as his brother had done. He would have had it otherwise if he could. He felt no desire to enter the busy, bustling world, and join the multitude in their eager race after wealth. His heart beat high with love and devotion to his Divine Master, and he would cheerfully have dedicated his whole life to that Master's service, only he knew it could not be. His life had been ordered differently, and he prayed for strength to put his own secret longings on one side, and submit cheerfully to the will of Mr Newton.

Mrs Forrester fathomed the secret wish of the young man's heart, and she told her friend the rector. ' I wish it could be so,' Mr Wyndham said, ' it seems a pity to chain an earnest, devoted spirit like that down to the desk and ledger. Who knows that it will not be so yet ? God overrules all things in His own inscrutable wisdom, and He may bring it to pass. Pray for him, dear Mrs Forrester, and leave the issue in our Father's hand. You may safely trust it to Him. Meanwhile, let him continue his studies with me as long as he remains here.' And so it was. James went daily to the rectory as usual, and to fill up his time, the owner of their cottage, who was agent for one of the great landowners in the neighbourhood, employed him as a sort of clerk to attend to his books. So his life was a busy and useful one, and both he and his mother were content.

Frederick came down to see them occasionally, but he never stayed long. He had wearied of his quiet home, even before he had tasted the delights of town life, and the dull, monotonous routine of the country was unendurable to him now. He always went back to town with a sense of relief, congratulating himself that he had turned his back on such a humdrum life for ever. Each time he left Mrs Forrester bade him adieu with a sadder heart, for she felt that she might never see his face again. ' Tell Mr Newton I hope to see him once again before I die,' she would say, ' to thank him for his goodness to you. I will send for him when the end draws near.' It was in fulfilment of this promise that James was writing now ; and as he penned the lines, fraught with such bitter grief to him, his eyes grew dim and blurred with tears, and he could not see the characters he was forming.

His task completed, he sat in silence, his forehead resting on his hand, his heart swelling with bitter sorrow. His mother's eyes were fixed upon him as he sat there so still, and oh, how her heart yearned over her sorrowing son ! ' My boy,' she said at last. He rose, and came towards her. ' What is it, mother ? ' he asked She held out her hand with a faint smile. ' " Let not your heart be troubled," ' she said softly. He took the hand in his own, and sitting down, buried his face in the pillows. ' My darling, it is hard for you I know ! I wish I could soften the blow, but you know where to go for help and comfort, James.' Ay, he knew ! Even while she spoke an agonised cry for help was going up from his very heart. His mother laid her hand gently on his bowed head. 1 My time is growing short now,' she said, ' and I have much to say to you when you can bear to listen.' He looked up, pale but calm. ' I am listening now, mother,' he said. ' I want to speak what is in my mind while I have the strength.