THE WHITE CROSS.
"It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
The lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fade and die that night
It was the plant and flower of light;
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be."
"Early Ripe."--BEN JONSON.
It seemed as if she had been right. Ted came home with bright eyes and
glowing cheeks, and said they had had an "awfully" merry evening. And
his mother went to bed with an easy mind.
But the next morning she felt less happy again, for Ted was evidently
not well. He was not very ill, but just not very well, and he hung
about in an uninterested, unsettled way, quite unlike his usual busy
briskness.
"He excites himself too much when he goes out, I think," said his
father; "we really shall have to leave off ever letting him go out in
the evening unless we are there ourselves;" and he looked a little
anxiously at Ted as he spoke, though the boy had not heard what he said.
But again this slight anxiety passed by. Then came a change in the
weather, and a sudden frost set in. Ted seemed to revive at once, and
when he heard that there was to be a whole holiday for skating, no one
was more eager about it than he. And, a little against her own feelings,
his mother let him go.
"You must be careful, Ted," she said; "you are not yet looking as well
as usual. And the ice cannot be very firm. Indeed, I almost doubt its
bearing at all. A bath in icy water would not do you any good just now."
But Ted promised to be careful, and his mother knew she could trust him.
Besides, several big boys were to be there, who would, she knew, look
after him. So Ted went, and came home saying it had been as usual
"awfully jolly;" but he did look tired, and owned himself rather so,
even though well enough to go out again in the evening with the others,
and to be one of the merriest at what the children called "a penny
reading" together, at which each in turn of the little party of friends
read or repeated or acted some story or piece of poetry for the
amusement of the others. And once again, but this was the last time
she could do so, Ted's mother felt able to throw off the slight vague
anxiety which had kept coming and going for the last few days about her
little boy, and to go to sleep with an easy mind.
But the next morning, to his own and her disappointment, he woke "tired"
again. Only tired--he complained of nothing else, but he said he wished
he need not go to school. And that was _so_ unlike Ted.
"Need I go, mother?" he asked gently.
She looked at him doubtfully.
"It seems such a pity, dear--so near the examinations too. And
sometimes, you know, when you haven't felt quite well in the morning you
have come back quite right again."
"Very well," said Ted, and he went off cheerfully enough.
But when he came back he was not all right as his mother had hoped; the
"tiredness" was greater, and he seemed to have caught cold, and the
next morning, after a restless night, there was no longer any doubt
that Ted was ill. Our dear little Ted--how quickly illness does its
work--above all with children! Almost before one has realised its
presence the rosy cheeks are pale and the bright eyes dimmed; the sturdy
legs grow weak and trembling, and the merry chatter ceases. Ah dear!
what a sad, strange hush comes over a house where "one of the children"
is ill.
The hush and the sadness came but gradually. Still, for a day or two,
they hoped it was nothing very serious. On this first afternoon of Ted's
really owning himself ill, two girl friends of Mabel's came, as had been
arranged, to see the famous museum, usually such a pleasure to its owner
to exhibit. But already how different all seemed!
"Mother, dear," he said, as if half reproaching himself for selfishness,
"it sometimes almost seems a bother to have to show my museum;" but as
it was considered better not to let him yield to the depression coming
over him, he bravely roused himself and went through the little exhibition
with his usual gentle courtesy. But this was the last effort of the kind
possible for him.
Sunday and Monday found him weaker, and the doctor's kind face grew
graver. Still he was not _very_ ill; only it began to seem as if he had
not strength to resist what had not, at first, threatened seriously. And
one day he made his mother's heart seem, for an instant, to stop beating,
when, looking up wistfully, he said to her,
"Mother, I don't _think_ I shall ever get better."
And the sad days and sadder nights went slowly on. Now and then there
seemed a little sparkle of hope. Once Ted began to talk about meeting
his dear Percy at the station, when he came home for the holidays, which
made those about him hope he was feeling stronger; then, at another
time, he said what a pity it would be not to be well by Christmas and by
his birthday, and he smiled when his father told him, as was the case,
that the doctor quite hoped he would be well by then; and one day when
the post brought him his great wish--a beautiful book of travels--his
face lighted up with pleasure, and, though not able to read it, the
welcome present lay on his bed where he could see it and smile to
himself to think it was there. There were happy times through his
illness, weak and wearied though he grew, and now and then he seemed
so bright that it was difficult, for a little, not to think him much
better. But the illness which Ted had is a very deceitful one--it
invisibly saps away the strength even when the worst sharp suffering is
over--and slowly, slowly it came to be seen that his own feeling had
been true; our Ted was not to get better.
One day a travelling merchant brought to the door a case of pretty
Parian ornaments. White and pure they shone in the winter sunshine, and
some one had the thought that "one of these might please Ted." So they
were brought up for him to choose from. Poor Cissy! she would fain have
carried them in; but alas! for fear of infection, she could not be
allowed to see her brother, which made of these last days a double
sorrow to her, though she did not know how ill he was. Ted touched the
pretty things with his little thin hand.
"They are very pretty," he said. "I like this one best, please, mother."
"This one" was a snow-white cross, and his mother's heart ached with a
strange thrill as she saw his choice; but she smiled as she placed it
beside him, where it stood, ever in his sight, till his blue eyes could
see it no more.
There came a morning on which the winter sun rose with a wonderful
glory; gold and orange light seemed to fill the sky, as if in prelude
to some splendid pageant. It was Sunday morning. Ted lay asleep, as if
carved in marble, his little white face rested on the pillow, and as
his mother turned from the marvellous beauty outside to the small figure
that seemed to her, just then, the one thing in earth or sky, she
whispered to herself what she felt to be the truth.
"It is his last Sunday with us. Before another my Ted will have entered
that city where there is no need of the sun, of which God Himself is the
light. My happy Ted! but oh, how shall we live without him?"
She was right. Ted did not live to see Christmas or his birthday.
Sweetly and peacefully, trusting God in death as he had trusted Him in
life, the little fellow fearlessly entered the dark valley--the valley
of the _shadow_ of death only, for who can doubt that to such as Ted
what _seems_ death is but the entrance to fuller life?
So, children, I will not say that this was the _end_ of the simple life
I have told you of--and in yet another way Ted lives--in the hearts of
all that loved him his sweet memory can never die. And if I have been
able to make any among you feel that you too love him, I cannot tell
you how glad I shall be.
They laid him in a pretty corner of the little cemetery from which can
be seen the old church Ted loved so well, and the beautiful chase, where
he so often walked. And even in those midwinter days his little friend
Gertrude found flowers for his grave. It was all she could do to show
her love for him, she said, crying bitterly, for she might not see him
to bid him good-bye, and her heart was very sore.
So it was with Christmas roses that the grave of our Christmas child was
decked.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Missing punctuation has been added. The following additional changes
were made to the text:
In chapter 4, the misprint "Hs" was changed to read "He" in the sentence:
HE would not leave the least shred of paper or even crumbs about
In chapter 10, the word "other" was changed to "another" in the sentence:
(...) he would not take the round of the Skensdale farm for
ANOTHER three or four days at least