‘I see closed daisy-heads, gleaming like pearls on some mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock- leaves and rank grass, and cleared all away.’
‘I always like that to be done—it soothes one’s mind to see the place in order. And I dare say within the church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa’s epitaph in black letters on the white marble. There is plenty of room for other inscriptions underneath.’
‘William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning: he was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you.’
‘If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants, Shirley my trinkets—except one, which must not be taken off my neck—and you, ma’am, my books.’ After a pause: ‘Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for something.’
‘For what, Caroline?’
‘You know I always delight to hear you sing. Sing me a hymn just now—sing that hymn which begins:
&nbdp Our hope for years to come;
Our shelter from the stormy blast;
&nbdp Our refuge, haven, home!”’
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it was almost divine—neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary compared to the expression which trembled through—a tender vibration from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen; even old Helstone, as he walked to the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife he could not tell, nor why it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline’s fading girlhood. He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay Wynne, the magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very much his aversion. When they attacked him he usually found means to make them march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the fields. He hastened his customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond its reach.
“Return, ye sons of men”;
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.
Are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
Fresh in the morning light;
The flowers beneath the mower’s hand
Lie withering ere ’tis night.
Our hope for years to come;
Be Thou our guard while troubles last,—
O Father, be our home!’
‘Now sing a song—a Scottish song,’ suggested Caroline when the hymn was over—“‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon.”’