I've often heard him
tell the tale. I thought it might have been the same inn."
We turned in at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep well, being
tired; but I didn't. As a rule, I undress and put my head on the pillow,
and then somebody bangs at the door, and says it is half-past eight: but,
to-night, everything seemed against me; the novelty of it all, the
hardness of the boat, the cramped position (I was lying with my feet
under one seat, and my head on another), the sound of the lapping water
round the boat, and the wind among the branches, kept me restless and
disturbed.
I did get to sleep for a few hours, and then some part of the boat which
seemed to have grown up in the night - for it certainly was not there
when we started, and it had disappeared by the morning - kept digging
into my spine. I slept through it for a while, dreaming that I had
swallowed a sovereign, and that they were cutting a hole in my back with
a gimlet, so as to try and get it out. I thought it very unkind of them,
and I told them I would owe them the money, and they should have it at
the end of the month. But they would not hear of that, and said it would
be much better if they had it then, because otherwise the interest would
accumulate so. I got quite cross with them after a bit, and told them
what I thought of them, and then they gave the gimlet such an
excruciating wrench that I woke up.
The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I would step out
into the cool night-air. I slipped on what clothes I could find about -
some of my own, and some of George's and Harris's - and crept under the
canvas on to the bank.
It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth
alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush,
while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister -
conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish
human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children
whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god they
have been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoing
dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping,
half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.
And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its
great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been
so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of
bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then
Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and
smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very
silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's
heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our
hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away
beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a
mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great
Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that
Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that
wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell
the mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly
knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grew
very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their way
therein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very
dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to
lighten the gloom and sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode,
missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more;
and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they had been
journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night,
as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great
hall, and drank a loving measure, there came the comrade they had lost,
and greeted them. His clothes were ragged, like a beggar's, and many sad
wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great
radiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he told
them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days
and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom there
came to him a stately maiden, and took him by the hand and led him on
through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the
wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a
little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our way-worn
knight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision
seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one
entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the
depth.
