_ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of her hand lay always Menie's little Bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise.
Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them.
"Graeme," said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside me and rest, before Will and Rosie come home."
Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. But she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence.
"Graeme," said Marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?"
"What love?"
"That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme?"
Graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,--
"You're no' feared, Menie?"
"No," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "Do you think I need to fear, Graeme?"
If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it.
"None need fear who trust in Jesus," said she, softly.
"No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trust, now that I am going to die? I know He is able to save."
"All who come to him," whispered Graeme. "My darling, have you come?"
"I think he has drawn me to Himself. I think I am His very own. Graeme, I know I am not wise like you--and I have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often--but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, too."
She lay quietly down again.
"Graeme, are you afraid for me?"
"I canna be afraid for one who trusts in Jesus."
It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy.
"There is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said Marian, again. "My life has been such a happy life. I have had no tribulation that the Bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. I have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering."
"God has been very good to you, dear."
"And you'll let me go willingly, Graeme?"
"Oh! Menie, must you go. Could you no' bide with us a little while?" said Graeme, her tears coming fast. A look of pain came to her sister's face.
"Graeme," said she, softly; "at first I thought I couldna bear to go and leave you all. But it seems easy now. And you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?"
"No, no! my darling."
"At first you'll all be sorry, but God will comfort you. And my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have Rosie and Will--and, Graeme, you will tell papa?"
"Yes, I will tell him."
"He'll grieve at first, and I could not bear to see him grieve. After he has time to think about it, he will be glad."
"And Arthur, and all the rest--" murmured Graeme.
A momentary shadow passed over Marian's face.
"Oh! Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart to leave you all--but I am willing now. God, I trust, has made me willing. And after a while they will be happy again. But they will never forget me, will they, Graeme?"
"My darling! never!"
"Sometimes I wish I had known--I wish I had been quite sure, when they were all at home. I would like to have said something. But it doesna really matter. They will never forget me."
"We will send for them," said Graeme, through her tears.
"I don't know. I think not. It would grieve them, and I can bear so little now. And we were so happy the last time. I think they had best not come, Graeme."
But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer.
"Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would think of me as I used to be, than to see me now. No, Graeme, I think I will wait."
In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times.
"It won't be long. And, Graeme--I shall see our mother first--and you must have patience, and wait. We shall all get safe home at last--I am quite,
quite sure of that."
A step was heard at the door, and Mrs Snow entered.
"Weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. She saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting.
"Have the bairns come?" asked Menie.
"No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae again. Do you want them home?"
"Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them."
The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence.
"It's no' like spring to-night, Janet," said Menie.
"No, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. But the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again."
"Yes; I hope so," said Menie, softly.
"Are you wearying for the spring, dear?"
"Whiles I weary." But the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, Janet well knew.
"I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. It was long before this time of the year--and it seems long to wait for spring."
"Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary."
Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever.
"Janet, when will Sandy come? Have you got a letter yet?"
"Yes; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now."
"Oh! I hope not. I want to see him and your mother. I want them to see me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards."
"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. It will rest you, and I'll bide with Menie here."
Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. Not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the March wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. Up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. Conscious only of one thought, that Menie must die, and that the time was hastening.
Yes. It was coming very near now. God help them all. Weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. She bowed herself utterly down.
"So let it be! God's will be done!"
And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. God gives power to his children to pray--face to face--in His very presence. Giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "I am Thine. Save me." Between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. No foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than Menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places.
She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met Mr Snow's look, so grave in its kindliness.
"Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?"
"No," said Graeme, humbly. "I am going in." But she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand.
"Miss Graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He's a mind to about it?"
"Yes," said Graeme, "I give up. His will be done."
"Amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, Deacon Snow's prayer for her found a place.
She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into Hannah's bright kitchen.
"Will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke.
"Well, I guess I'll sit down here. It won't be long before Mis' Snow'll be going along down. But don't you wait. Go right in to your father."
Graeme opened the study-door and went in.
"I will tell him to-night," said she. "God help us."
Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand.
"Graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen Janet?"
"Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago."
"Poor Janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always "Mistress Snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and Graeme wondered to-night.
"Has anything happened?" asked she.
"Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her mother is dead."
The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand.
"Yes," continued her father. "It was rather sudden, it seems--soon after she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!"
Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. "Poor Janet!" well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. It was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. It did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend.
Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme found when she entered her sister's room. Marian was asleep, and coming close to Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm's about her neck without a word. At first Graeme thought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "You see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans."
"Oh, Janet! There's nothing in all the world that we can trust in."
"Ay, you may weel say that. But it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the Lord winna let us forget."
There was a pause.
"When was it?" asked Graeme, softly.
"Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since I sat here. Her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go."
"And would she have come?"
"Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from the beginning. I thought I asked God's guiding, and I was persuaded into thinking I had gotten it. But you see my heart was set on it from the very first--guiding or no guiding--and now the Lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking."
"Oh, Janet!" said Graeme, remonstratingly.
"My dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. I have more need to take the lesson to heart. May the Lord give me grace to do it."
Graeme could say nothing, and Janet continued--
"It's ill done in me to grieve for her. She is far better off than ever I could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--I must submit."
"You have Sandy still."
"Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping."
"And he will come yet."
"Yes, I have little doubt. But I'll no' set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best."
After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a time till Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near the very last.
They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. They had been sitting thus a long time--so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father's eyes were upon her.
"You are tired to-night, Graeme," said he, at last. Graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed.
"It will not be long now."
Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak.
"We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her mother first. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!"
Graeme's head drooped down on the table. If she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. She trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. Her father watched her for a moment.
"Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?"
"Not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "I am almost willing now."
"What is the happiest life here--and Menie's has been happy--to the blessedness of the rest which I confidently believe awaits her, dear child?"
"It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be left behind."
"Ay, love! But we must bide God's time. And you will have your brothers and Rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts."
Graeme's head drooped lower. She was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. Her father went on--
"And afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. I used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. If it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, I might have borne it better, I thought. But God knows. There are some things for which we cannot prepare."
There was a long silence.
"Graeme, I have something which I must say to you," said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "If the time comes--when the time comes--my child, I grieve to give you pain, but what I have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. My child, I have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together--" Graeme did not move.
"My child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. I stand now, and see all the way by which God has led me, with a grieved wonder, that I should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. The dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--Mounts of God, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. And yet, I mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable.
"My child, are you hearing me? Oh! if my experience could teach you! I know it cannot be. The blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and I need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of God, for which there is no balm. You are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. But there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that He will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. Are you hearing me, my child?"
Graeme gave a mute sign of assent.
"Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. Yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. God make us patient in it,--patient and helpful. Short as your sister's life has been, it has not been in vain. She has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness--and to you Graeme, most of all."
Graeme's lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. Her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little.
"Hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "Nay," he added, as she would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired Graeme, my child, my best comforter always."
Graeme's frame shook with sobs.
"Don't papa--I cannot bear it--"
She struggled with herself, and grew calm again.
"Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, it is not because I am altogether unhappy, or because I am not willing to let her go--"
"Hush, love, I know. You are your mother's own patient child. I trust you quite, Graeme, and that is why I have courage to give you pain. For I must say more to-night. If anything should happen to me--hush, love. My saying it does not hasten it. But when I am gone, you will care for the others. I do not fear for you. You will always have kind friends in Janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, I am sure. But Graeme, I would like you all to keep together. Be one family, as long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, that you should keep together."
The shock which her father's words gave, calmed Graeme in a moment.
"But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?"
"No, love, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. That is all I had to say, love."
But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,--
"I trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your mother and me."
It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. They were all together in Marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. It was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. Not that any of them thought it would be to-night. Mrs Snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. She had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as Mrs Snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,--
"Janet, is it to be to-night? Are they all here? Papa, Graeme. Where is Graeme?"
They were with her in a moment, and Graeme's cheek was laid on her sister's wasted hand.
"Well, my lammie!" said her father, softly.
"Papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?"
Her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek.
"You are not afraid, my child?"
Afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. Her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the King's messenger was come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but Janet's toil-worn hand laid over them.
Graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move.
"There is no need. Let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank God for the momentary forgetfulness which He has given her." _