Faith Gartney's Girlhood by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney (top non fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

air, and nourishing food, and some slight tonics.

Faith was at the old house, constantly. Her aunt craved her presence, and drew her more and more to herself. The strong love, kept down by a stiff, unbending manner, so, for years--resisting almost its own growth--would no longer be denied or concealed. Faith Gartney had nestled herself into the very core of this true, upright heart, unpersuadable by anything but clear judgment and inflexible conscience.

"I had a beautiful dream last night, Miss Faith," said Glory, one morning, when Faith came over and found the busy handmaiden with her churn upon the doorstone, "about Miss Henderson. I thought she was all well, and strong, and she looked so young, and bright, and pleasant! And she told me to make a May Day. And we had it out here in the field. And everybody had a crown; and everybody was queen. And the little children danced round the old apple tree, and climbed up, and rode horseback in the branches. And Miss Henderson was out there, dressed in white, and looking on. It don't seem so--just to say it; but I couldn't tell you how beautiful it was!"

"Dreams are strange things," said Faith, thoughtfully. "It seems as if they were sent to us, sometimes--as if we really had a sort of life in them."

"Don't they?" cried Glory, eagerly. "Why, Miss Faith, I've dreamed on, and on, sometimes, a whole story out! And, after all, we're asleep almost as much as we're awake. Why isn't it just as real?"

"I had a dream that night of the fire, Glory. I never shall forget it. I went to sleep there, on the sofa. And it seemed as if I were on the top of a high, steep cliff, with no way to get down. And all at once, there was fire behind me--a burning mountain! And it came nearer, and nearer, till it scorched my very feet; and there was no way down. And then--it was so strange!--I knew Mr. Armstrong was coming. And two hands took me--just as his did, afterwards--and I felt so safe! And then I woke, and it all happened. When he came, I felt as if I had called him."

The dasher of the churn was still, and Glory stood, breathless, in a white excitement, gazing into Faith's eyes.

"And so you did, Miss Faith! Somehow--through the dreamland--you certainly did!"

Faith went in to her aunt, and Glory churned and pondered.

Were these two to go on, dreaming, and calling to each other "through the dreamland," and never, in the daylight, and their waking hours, speak out?

This thought, in vague shape, turned itself, restlessly, in Glory's brain.

Other brains revolved a like thought, also.

"Somebody talked about a 'ripe pear,' once. I wonder if that one isn't ever going to fall!"

Nurse Sampson wondered thus, as she settled Miss Henderson in her armchair before the window, and they saw Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney walk up the field together in the sunset light.

"I suppose it wouldn't take much of a jog to do it. But, maybe, it's as well to leave it to the Lord's sunshine. He'll ripen it, if He sees fit."

"It's a pretty picture, anyhow. There's the new moon exactly over their right shoulders, if they'd only turn their heads to look at it. I don't think much of signs; but, somehow, I always _do_ like to have that one come right!"

"Well, it's there, whether they've found it out, or not," replied Aunt Faith.

Glory sat on the flat doorstone. She had the invariable afternoon knitting work in her hand; but hand and work had fallen to her lap, and her eyes were away upon the glittering, faint crescent of the moon, that pierced the golden mist of sunset. Close by, the evening star had filled his chalice of silver splendor.

"The star and the moon only see each other. I can see both. It is better."

She had come to the feeling of Roger Armstrong's sermon. To receive consciously, as she had through her whole, life intuitively and unwittingly, all beauty of all being about her into the secret beauty of her own. She could be glad with the gladness of the whole world.

The two came up, and Glory rose, and stood aside.

"You have had thoughts, to-night, Glory," said the minister. "Where have they been?"

"Away, there," answered Glory, pointing to the western sky.

They turned, and followed her gesture; and from up there, at their right, beyond, came down the traditional promise of the beautiful young moon.

Glory had shown it them.

"And I've been thinking, besides," said Glory, "about that dream of yours, Miss Faith. I've thought of it all day. Please tell it to Mr. Armstrong?"

And Glory disappeared down the long passage to the kitchen, and left them standing there, together. She went straight to the tin baker before the fire, and lifted the cover, to see if her biscuits were ready for tea. Then she seated herself upon a little bench that stood against the chimney-side, and leaned her head against the bricks, and looked down into the glowing coals.

"It was put into my head to do it!" she said, breathlessly, to herself. "I hope it wasn't ridiculous!"

So she sat, and gazed on, into the coals. _They_ were out there in the sunset, with the new moon and the bright star above them in the saffron depths.

They stood alone, except for each other, in this still, radiant beauty of all things.

Miss Henderson's window was around a projection of the rambling, irregular structure, which made the angle wherein the pleasant old doorstone lay.

"May I have your dream, Miss Faith?"

She need not be afraid to tell a simple dream. Any more, at this moment, than when she told it to Glory, that morning, on that very spot. Why did she feel, that if she should speak a syllable of it now, the truth that lay behind it would look out, resistless, through its veil? That she could not so keep down its spirit-meaning, that it should not flash, electric, from her soul to his?

"It was only--that night," she said, tremulously. "It seemed very strange. Before the fire, I had the dream. It was a dream of fire and danger--danger that I could not escape from. And I held out my hands--and I found you there--and you saved me. Oh, Mr. Armstrong! As you _did_ save me, afterwards!"

Roger Armstrong turned, and faced her. His deep, earnest eyes, lit with a new, strange radiance, smote upon hers, and held them spellbound with their glance.

"I, too, dreamed that night," said he, "of an unknown peril to you. You beckoned me. I sprang from out that dream, and rushed into the night--until I found you!"

Their two souls met, in that brief recital, and knew that they had met before. That, through the dreamland, there had been that call and answer.

Faith neither spoke, nor stirred, nor trembled. This supreme moment of her life held her unmoved in its own mightiness.

Roger Armstrong held out both his hands.

"Faith! In the sight of God, I believe you belong to me!"

At that solemn word, of force beyond all claim of a mere mortal love, Faith stretched her hands in answer, and laid them into his, and bowed her head above them.

"In the sight of God, I belong to you!"

So she gave herself. So she was taken. As God's gift, to the heart that had been earthly desolate so long.

There was no dread, no shrinking, in that moment. A perfect love cast out all fear.

And the new moon and the evening star shone down together in an absolute peace.


CHAPTER XXXIII.

LAST HOURS.

"In this dim world of clouding cares
We rarely know, till 'wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies, The angels with us unawares.
. . . . .
"Strange glory streams through life's wild rents,
And through the open door of death
We see the heaven that beckoneth To the beloved going hence."
GERALD MASSEY.

"Read me the twenty-third Psalm," said Miss Henderson.

It was the evening before the day fixed upon by her physicians for the surgical operation she had decided to submit to.

Faith was in her place by the bedside, her hand resting in that of her aunt. Mr. Armstrong sat near--an open Bible before him. Miss Sampson had gone down the field for a "snatch of air."

Clear upon the stillness fell the sacred words of cheer. There was a strong, sure gladness in the tone that uttered them, that told they were born anew, in the breathing, from a heart that had proved the goodness and mercy of the Lord.

In a solemn gladness, also, two other hearts received them, and said, silently, Amen!

"Now the fourteenth of St. John."

"'In my father's house are many mansions.' 'I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.' Yes. It holds us all. Under one roof. One family--whatever happens! Now, put away the book, and come here; you two!"

It was done; and Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney stood up, side by side, before her.

"I haven't said so before, because I wouldn't set people troubling beforehand. But in my own mind, I'm pretty sure of what's coming. And if I hadn't felt so all along, I should now. When the Lord gives us our last earthly wish, and the kind of peace comes over that seems as if it couldn't be disturbed by anything, any more, we may know, by the hush of it, that the day is done. I'm going to bid you good night, Faith, and send you home. Say your prayers, and thank God, for yourself and for me. Whatever you hear of me, to-morrow, take it for good news; for it _will_ be good. Roger Armstrong! Take care of the child! Child! love your husband; and trust in him; for you may!"

Close, close--bent Faith above her aunt, and gave and took that solemn good-night kiss.

"'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with us all. Amen!'"

With the word of benediction, Roger Armstrong turned from the bedside, and led Faith away.

And the deeper shadows of night fell, and infolded the Old House, and the hours wore on, and all was still. Stillest, calmest of all, in the soul of her who had dwelt there for nearly threescore years and ten, and who knew, none the less, that it would be surely home to her wheresoever her place might be given her next, in that wide and beautiful "House of the Lord!"

It was a strange day that succeeded; when they sat, waiting so, through those morning hours, keeping such Sabbath as heart and life do keep, and are keeping, somewhere, always, in whatever busy workday of the world, when great issues come to solemnize the time.

Almost as still at the Old