Know then, my brethren, heaven is clear,
And all the clouds are gone;
The righteous now shall flourish, and
Good days are coming on:
Come then, my brethren, and be glad,
And eke rejoice with me.
FRANCIS QUARLES
Over the happy and the miserable, the guilty and the good, Time alike
passes; though his step may be light or heavy, according to the feelings
of those who watch his progress, still he pursues, with sure and certain
tread, a course upon which he never turns.
We are about to bid farewell to those who have been our companions
through a long but we trust not a weary path; and we delay them but for
a short space longer to learn how felt the household of Cecil Place,
after the events and excitements of a day which gave birth to so many
marvels, and unravelled so many mysteries.
We have, however, yet to deal out perfect justice,--and would fain tarry
a moment to remark how rarely it is that, even in the sober world of
Fact, the wicked finish their course--and vengeance has not overtaken.
Truly has it been said that "virtue is its own reward:" as truly has it
been added, that "vice brings its own punishment."
How lightly, and with how deep a blessing, did Constance Cecil, when the
day was breaking, offer up a fervent thanksgiving to God that her only
parent, though deeply sinful in intent, was free from blood, and,
though worn in body, was sleeping as quietly as a wearied child when its
task is ended. Her mother's spirit seemed to hover over and bless her,
and imagination pictured another by her side who came to share the
blessing--it was the companion of her childhood, the chosen, and loved,
and trusted of a long and happy and prosperous after-life.
Constantia pressed her couch; but, with the exception of the worn and
weary Sir Robert, whose existence quivered like the parting light of an
expiring lamp, no eyes slumbered in Cecil Place. The Lady Frances
Cromwell, upon that morning, took not up the lays of the foolish Waller,
but the precious volume that, in her vanity, she had too often
slighted--she read therein,-"Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."
And as she so read, a more calm and settled expression spread over her
features; and after much musing and much thankfulness, she sought the
chamber of her friend. Constantia was not alone, for, pale and weak, and
trembling,--still like the aspen which every breeze may agitate,--the
little Puritan Barbara crouched on an old cushion by the side of her
lady's bed.