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."