Chapter Nineteen.

The School-Bell.

To me the thought of death is terrible,
Having such hold of life; to you it is not
More than the sudden lifting of a latch;
Nought but a step into the open air,
Out of a tent already luminous
With light that shines through its transparent fold.
 
Longfellow’s Golden Legend.

“I’ve got a good piece of news for you, Master Daubeny,” said the kind old school-nurse.

“What is it? is my mother here?” he said eagerly. “O! let her come and see me.”

She was at the door, and the next moment his arms were round her neck in a long embrace. “Darling, darling mother,” he exclaimed, “now I shall be happy, now that you have come. Nay, you mustn’t cry, mother,” he said, as he felt one of her fast flowing tears upon his forehead; “you’ve come to help me in bearing up.”

“Dearest Johnny,” she said, “I trust yet that God will spare the widow’s only son; He Who raised the son of the widow of Nain will pity us.”

“His ways are not ours, mother dear; I do not think that I shall recover. My past life hangs before me like a far-off picture already; I lie and look at it almost as if it were not mine, and my mind is quite at peace; only sometimes my head is all confused.”

“God’s will be done, Johnny,” sobbed the poor lady. “But I do not think I can live, if you be taken from me.”

“Taken—but not for ever, mother,” he said, looking up into her face.

“O Johnny, why, why did you not spare yourself, and work less? It is the work which has killed you.”

“Only because it fell heavier on me than on other boys. They got through it quickly, but I was not so clever, and it cost me more to do my duty. I tried to do it, mother dear, and God helped me. All is well as it is. O my head, my head!”

“You must rest, darling. My visit and talk has excited you. Try to go to sleep.”

“Then sit there, mother, opposite me, so that I may see you when I wake.”

She kissed his aching brow, and sat down, while he composed himself to rest. She was a lady of about fifty, with bands of silver hair smoothed over her calm forehead, and in appearance not unlike her son. But there was something very sweet and matronly about her look, and it was impossible to see her without feeling the respect and honour which was her due.

And she sat there, by the bedside, looking upon her only son, the boy who had been the light of her life; and she knew that he was dying—she knew that he was fading away before her eyes. Yet there was a sweet and noble resignation in her anguish; there was a deep and genuine spirit of submission to the will of heaven, and a perfect faith in God’s love, whatever might be the issue, in every prayer she breathed, as with clasped hands, and streaming eyes, and moving lips, she gazed upon his face. He might appear dull and heavy to others, but to her he was dear beyond all thought; and now she was to lose him. In her inmost heart she knew that she must suffer that great pang; that God was taking to Himself the son who had been so good and true to her, so affectionate, so sweet-tempered, so unselfish, that even from his gentle and quiet infancy he had never by his conduct caused her a moment’s pain. She had long been looking forward to the strong and upright manhood which should follow this pure boyhood; but that dear boy was not destined to be the staff of her declining years; her hands were to close his eyes in the last long sleep, and she was to pass alone under the overshadowing rocks that close around the valley of human life. God help the mother’s heart who must pass through scenes like this!

Poor Daubeny could not sleep. Brain fever is usually accompanied by delirium, and as he turned restlessly upon his pillow, his mind began to wander away to other days and scenes.

“Stupid, sir? yes, I know I am, but I can’t help it; I’ve really done my best. I was up at five o’clock this morning, trying, trying so hard to learn this repetition. Indeed, indeed, I’m not idle, sir. I’ll try to do my duty if I can. O Power, I wish I were like you; you learn so quickly, and you never get abused as I do after it all.”

And then the poor boy fancied himself sitting under the gas-lamp in the passage as he had so often done, and trying to master one of his repetition lessons, repeating the lines fast to himself as he used to do—

“‘Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules,
Enisus—enisus arces—enisus arces attigit igneas,
Quos inter Augustus—’

“How does it go on?

“‘Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules,
Enisus arces attigit igneas, attigit igneas,
Quos inter Augustus recumbens—’”

“Oh, what does come next?” and he stopped with an expression of pain on his face, pressing his hands tight over his brow. “Don’t go on with the repetition, Johnny, dear,” said the poor mother. “I’m sure you know it enough now.”

“O, no! not yet, mother; I shall be turned, I know I shall to-morrow, and it makes him so angry; he’ll call me idle and incorrigible, and all kinds of things.” And then he began again—

“‘Sed quid Typhoeus aut validus Mimas,
Aut quid minaci Porphyrion statu,
Quid Rhoetus—Rhoetus—quid Rhoetus—’

“Oh, I shall break down here, I know I shall,” and he burst into tears. “It’s no good trying to help me, Power, I can’t learn it.”

“Leave off for to-night at least, Johnny,” said his mother, in a tone of anguish; “you can learn the rest to-morrow. Oh, what shall I do?” she asked, turning to the nurse; “I cannot bear to hear him go on like this.”

“Be comforted, ma’am,” said the nurse, wiping away her own tears. “He’s a dear good lamb, and he’ll come to hisself soon afore he goes off.”

“Must he die, then?” she asked, trembling in every limb.

“Hush, good lady! we never know what God may please to do in His mercy. We must bow to His gracious will, ma’am, as you knows well, I don’t doubt. He’s fitter to die than many a grown man is, poor child, and that’s a blessing. I wish though he wasn’t a repeating of that there heathenish Latin.”

But Daubeny’s voice was still humming fragments of Horace lines, sometimes with eager concentration, and then with pauses at parts where his memory failed, at which he would grow distressed and anxious—

“‘Quid Rhoetus... quid Rhoetus evulsisque truncis, Enceladus.’

“Oh, I cannot learn this; I think I’m getting more stupid every day. Enceladus—”

“If you love me, Johnny, give it up for to-night, that’s a darling boy,” said his mother.

“But, mother, it’s my duty to know it; you wouldn’t have me fail in duty, mother dear, would you? Why, it was you who told me to persevere, and do all things with my might. Well, I will leave it for to-night.” Then, still unconscious of what he was doing, the boy got up and prayed, as it was evident that he had done many a time, that God would strengthen his memory and quicken his powers, and enable him to do his duty like a man. It was inexpressibly touching to see him as he knelt there—thin, pale, emaciated, the shadow of his former self, kneeling in his delirium to offer up his old accustomed prayer.

And when he got into bed again, although his mind still wandered, he was much calmer, and a new direction seemed to have been given to his thoughts. The prayer had fallen like dew on his aching soul. He fancied himself in Power’s study, where for many a Sunday the two boys had been used to sit, and where they had often learnt or read to each other their favourite hymns. Fragments of these hymns he was now repeating, dwelling on the words with an evident sense of pleasure and belief—

“‘A noble army—men and boys,
    The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour’s throne rejoice,
    In robes of light arrayed.
They climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
    ’Mid peril, toil, and pain;
O God, to us may strength be given,
    To follow in their train.’

“Isn’t that beautiful, Power?

“‘And when on upward wing.
    Cleaving the sky,
Sun, moon, and stars forgot,
    Upwards I fly;
Still all my song shall be,
    Nearer, my God, to Thee,
        Nearer to Thee.’”

And as he murmured to himself in a soothed tone of voice these verses, and lines of “Jerusalem the Golden,” and “O for a closer walk with God,” and “Rock of Ages,” the wearied brain at last found repose, and Daubeny fell asleep.

He lingered on till the end of the week. On the Saturday he ceased to be delirious, and the lucid interval began which precedes death. It was then that he earnestly entreated to be allowed to see those school friends whose names had been so often on his lips—Power, Walter, and Henderson. The boys, who had daily and eagerly inquired for him, entered with a feeling of trembling solemnity the room of sickness. The near presence of death filled them with an indescribable awe, and they felt desolate at the approaching loss of a friend whom they loved so well.

“I sent to say good-bye,” he said, smiling sweetly. “You must not cry and grieve for me. I am happier than I ever felt before. Good-bye, Walter. It’s for a long, long, long time, but not for ever. Good-bye, my dear old Flip—naughty fellow to cry so, when I am happy; and when I am gone, Flip, think of me sometimes, and of talks we’ve had together, and take your side manfully for God and Christ. Good-bye, Power, my best friend; we meant to be confirmed together, you know, but God has ordered it otherwise.” And then he whispered low—

“‘Lord shall we come? come yet again?
Thy children ask one blessing more;
To come not now alone, but then
When life, and death, and time are o’er;
Then, then, to come, O Lord, and be
Confirmed in heaven—confirmed by Thee.’

“O Power, that line fills me with hope and joy; think of it for me when I am dead,” and his voice trembled with emotion as he again murmured, “‘Confirmed in heaven—confirmed by Thee.’ I’m afraid I’m too weak to talk any more. O, what a long, long good-bye it will be—for years, and years, and years; to think that when you have gone out of the room we shall never meet in life again, and I shall never hear your pleasant voices. O Flip, you make me cry against my will by crying so. It’s hard to say, but it must be said at last. Good-bye, God bless you, with all my heart.” He laid his hand on their heads as they bent over him, and once mere whispering the last “Good-bye,” turned away his face, and made the pillow wet with his warm tears.

The sound of his mother’s sobs attracted him. “Ah, mother, darling, we are alone now; you will stay with me till I die. I am tired.”

“I feared that their visit would excite you too much, my child.”

“O no, mother; I couldn’t bear to die without seeing them, I loved them so much. Mother, will you sing to me a little—sing me my favourite hymn.”

She began in a low, sweet voice,—

“My God, my Father, while I stray,
Far from my home in life’s rough way,
O teach me from my heart to say,
        Thy will be done,
        Thy will be—”

She stopped, for sobs choked her voice. “I am sorry I cannot, Johnny. But I cannot bear to think how soon we must part.”

“Only for a short time, mother, a short time. I said a long time just now, but now it looks to me quite short, and I shall be with God. I see it all now so clearly. Do you remember those lines—

“‘The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.’

“How true they are! Oh, darling mother, how very, very good you have always been to me, and I pay you with all my heart’s whole love.” He pressed upon her lips a long, long kiss, and said, “Good-night, darling mother. I am falling asleep, I think.”

His arms relaxed their loving embrace, and glided down from her shoulder; his head fell back; the light faded from his soft and gentle eyes, and he was asleep.

Rightly he said “asleep”—the long sleep that is the sweetest and happiest in that it knows no waking here; the long sweet sleep that no evil dreams disturb; the sleep after which the eyes open upon the light of immortality, and the weary heart rests upon the bosom of its God. Yes, Daubeny had fallen asleep.

God help thee, widowed mother; the daily endearments, the looks of living affection, the light of the boy’s presence, are for thee and for thy home no more. There lies the human body of thy son; his soul is with the white-robed, redeemed, innumerable multitude in the Paradise of God.

For hours, till the light faded into darkness, as this young life had faded into death, she sat fixed in that deep grief which finds no utterance, and knows of no alleviation, with little consciousness save of the dead presence, and of the pang that benumbed her aching heart. And outside rang the sound of games and health, and the murmur of boy-voices came to her forlorn ear. There the stream of life was flashing joyously and gloriously in the sunshine, while here, in this darkened room, it had sunk into the sands, and lost itself under the shadow of the dark boughs. But she was a Christian; and as the sweet voices of memory, and conscience, and hope, and promise whispered to her in her loneliness their angel messages, her heart melted and the tears came, and she knelt down and took the dead hand of her son in hers, and said, between her sobs, while her tear-stained eyes were turned to heaven, “O God, teach me to understand Thy will.”

And through the night the great bell of the church of Saint Winifred’s tolled the sound of death; and, mingled with it stroke for stroke, in long, tremulous, thrilling notes that echoed through the silent buildings, rang out the thin clear bell of Saint Winifred’s School. The tones of that school-bell were usually only heard as they summoned the boys to lessons with quick and hurried beatings. How different now were the slow occasional notes—each note trembling itself out with undisturbed vibrations which quivered long upon the air—with which it told that for one at least whom it had been wont to warn, hurry was possible no longer, and there was boundless leisure now! There was a strange pulse of emotion in the hearts of the listening boys, when the sound of those two passing bells struck upon their ears as they sat at evening work, and told them that the soul of their schoolfellow had passed away, and that God’s voice had summoned His young servant to His side.

“You hear it, Henderson?” said Walter, who sat next to him.

“Yes,” answered Henderson in an awe-struck voice, “Daubeny is dead.”

The rest of that evening the two boys sat silent and motionless, full of the solemn thoughts which can never be forgotten. And for the rest of that evening the deep church-bell tolled, and the shrill school-bell tolling after it, shivered out into the wintry night air its tremulous message that the soul of Daubeny had passed away.