JOY AND SORROW
"I WONDER if I shall find that they have heard I from Mr. Basset,"
thought Margaret Cummings, as she entered the grounds of the Glen one
fine June morning, some few days after the master of the house had
set out on his journey to Boulogne; "I hope so I am sure—whatever
news he may have had to send. Anything is better than suspense. Poor
Josephine! She's very brave, but the sight of her white, set face
shows what she's enduring. Ah, there she is beneath the porch, on the
look out for me! Then there's news! Now, what is it?"
From under the porch a slim figure, clad in a blue cotton dress,
darted forth into the brilliant June sunshine to meet her, with a
radiant countenance eloquent of happiness and joy. Gone were the
white, set features of the previous day! The governess paused,
a feeling of intense relief filling her heart, and cried—
"Oh, my dear, you have had good news then?"
"Yes!" Josephine replied, "the best of news! Father is going to
recover! The doctors say so! His life is out of danger! And before
long he will be brought back to a hospital in England, and—and, oh,
hasn't God been merciful to me?"
Though generally one of the most undemonstrative of people, Margaret
Cummings threw her arms around Josephine and kissed her. Her caress
was returned warmly and gratefully.
"We've not had a very long letter from Uncle John," Josephine
continued, "because he's coming home almost immediately, and he'll be
able to explain all about father then. He says he can do no good by
staying at Boulogne; but he's glad he went, for he wouldn't have been
satisfied if he hadn't seen father. Do you know, he had to have his
photograph taken in different positions, and there were other delays
before he could leave England? But when, at last, he reached Boulogne
all his difficulties were over, for there he fell in with a French
gentleman who could speak English and helped him in every way he
could. Wasn't that kind and good of the French gentleman? And he and
Uncle John were strangers to each other, too!"
"It seems to me that in these days kindness and goodness are
constantly appearing unexpectedly! I am glad Mr. Basset was so
fortunate as to meet a friend in need. I suppose Miss Basset is less
uneasy about her brother now?"
"Yes, I think so. And, oh, she is so delighted that father is going
on well! Fancy! Father was well enough to talk to Uncle John, and he
sent me his love and a message which Uncle John didn't write but is
keeping to tell me when he gets home."
As governess and pupil entered the house together Miss Basset came
out of the dining-room, her face wreathed in smiles; she said that
as it was most certainly a red-letter day for them all she hoped
Miss Cummings would have no objection to taking a holiday, and added
that she was going into Midbury herself and would drive her home.
"Thank you, Miss Basset, that will be very kind of you," the
governess answered, adding earnestly: "I cannot tell you how deeply
glad I am that you have had such cheering news."
Oh, that was a happy holiday! Josephine and May spent the morning
in the garden amongst the roses; and in the afternoon they went for a
long walk, returning through Durley Dell, where they sat for an hour
on a mossy bank in the shade of a beech tree, and talked.
"Perhaps I may bring father here one day before long," Josephine said
softly, "for Aunt Ann says of course he will come to the Glen as soon
as he is convalescent. Oh, I hope he will come before the roses are
gone! He will so love to see them! I remember his telling me once
that the Glen roses were the most beautiful he had ever seen."
On their way home from Durley Dell they called for a few minutes at
Vine Cottage to inquire for Mrs. Rumbelow. The old women had heard
from Jane that Captain Basset had been wounded, and received the news
that he was doing well with so much pleasure that Josephine was
deeply touched by the feeling she showed, and determined that, if all
went well, some time she would take her father to see her.
Next day Mr. Basset arrived at home. He reached the Glen in a cab
from Midbury railway station about six o'clock in the evening. Miss
Basset had received a telegram in the morning saying at what time she
was to expect him, so she was waiting at the front door with May and
Josephine to greet him on his arrival.
"Oh, John, I'm so rejoiced you've come back safely!" she cried,
as she kissed him, adding quickly: "And dear Paul's really better?"
"Yes," he answered, "really better, thank God!"
He turned to the little girls and kissed them affectionately, then,
taking Josephine by the hand, led her into the drawing-room, the
others following. Josephine, searching his face with eager, anxious
eyes, saw that it looked pale and weary, and very sad.
"Please tell me all about father," she said tremulously, "I want
to know all. Oh, please, please, don't keep anything back!"
"I will not," he assured her. He seated himself on a sofa and drew
her down by his side. "As you know your father was injured in the
face and head," he continued, "and he had not long regained
consciousness before I saw him. He is in a large hotel at Boulogne,
which is being used as a hospital. My dear—" his voice faltered with
deep emotion— "I shall never forget the cry of pleasure Paul gave
when he heard my voice, and I shall always be thankful that I obeyed
the impulse which prompted me to go to him at once! I saw him twice.
On the second occasion he said he did not wish me to remain longer—
you see I could do no good there and was only in the way. Poor dear
fellow! The doctors say his face will not be much disfigured—"
"Oh, I am glad of that!" Josephine broke in joyfully, "I've been
thinking that it would be, and I know Aunt Ann has too!"
"And they say also that in their opinion in a few months he will be
quite restored to health," Mr. Basset proceeded, taking no apparent
heed of the interruption, "for he has a splendid constitution. The
trouble is about his sight."
The old man's clasp on the little hand he held tightened as he spoke.
He glanced significantly at his sister, who had sank into an easy
chair, and shook his head slightly. Josephine noted the gesture, and
a sudden chill feeling of dread fell upon her heart. She shivered as
she asked—
"Do you mean that his eyes are hurt, Uncle John?"
"Yes, my dear," Mr. Basset admitted sadly, "and badly hurt. He knows
it himself—spoke of it, in fact. It is a great blow to him, of
course, but your father is a brave man and a Christian. He bade me
tell you the truth—that he will never see again—"
"Oh, John!" interrupted Miss Basset, "how shocking! Oh, poor, poor
Paul! What a terrible affliction to fall upon him! Oh, I never
thought of this! Dear me, oh, dear me!" She sat wringing her hands,
the tears coursing down her cheeks.
"Do you mean that my father is blind?" asked Josephine slowly, as
though her mind was incapable of grasping the truth, plainly though
Mr. Basset had spoken. There was an expression of horror on her face.
"Yes!" she cried, as her uncle bowed his head silently, "he is blind!
Oh, father, father, father!"
She snatched her hand from Mr. Basset's and rose to her feet. May,
full of sympathy, hastened to her; but she put her aside, and ran out
of the room.
"Don't follow her—you'd better not," advised Mr. Basset, as May stood
hesitating; "for the time, at any rate, she will be best alone. I've
so dreaded telling her, poor little soul!"
Josephine had run out into the rose-scented garden and hidden herself
in a summerhouse which occupied a secluded corner. She cast herself
on the ground on her knees, in an agony of grief, her head bowed on
her arms which she rested on one of the two wooden chairs she and May
used when—as they often did—they came there to do their war work.
Heavy sobs shook her slender form; but it was some minutes before
tears came to her relief, then it seemed as though they would never
stop.
"Oh, father, poor, poor father!" she moaned over and over again;
"oh, what will he do?—what will he do?"
Her heart bled with pity for her father. She pictured him as she had
seen him last, looking back at her from the departing train at
Midbury railway station. What a splendid soldier he had been! So full
of strength and courage! She recalled how longingly his eyes had
smiled at her! Beautiful eyes, so bright and brave! Now their light
was quenched for ever!
By and by her tears ceased to flow, and she raised her head. Over the
doorway of the summerhouse hung festoons of pink and white cluster
roses, swaying gently in the summer breeze and making the air
fragrant with their scent. Josephine noticed them with deepening
pain.
"Father will never see them now," she thought, "never—never! And he
will never more see the sunshine, or the starlight, or any of the
beautiful sights he loved! Oh, poor father!"
She bowed her head once more on her arms, but she did not weep again;
her passion of grief had spent itself. And so Mr. Basset found her,
a picture of utter dejection, when, guessing where she had hidden,
he, by and by, came to seek her.
"Josephine," he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder, "get up,
my dear!" Then, as she obeyed, he made her take one chair, and seated
himself on the other. "God has spared your dear father's life," he
continued, "and thankfulness for that ought to soften this blow—"
"Oh, Uncle John, indeed I am thankful!" Josephine interposed; "but
but—oh, think what life will be to father without sight? He has
always been so active and busy in every way! He isn't a man who likes
to take things easily and let others work! And now—and now—oh, it
will be dreadful for him!"
"My dear, don't say so! And don't think it! We will pray God to
lighten your father's darkness, and I am sure He will. Now, I have
not given you your father's message—almost the last words he said to
me before I came away. It was this, 'Tell my little girl to remember
that all things work together for good to them that love God, and so
she mustn't grieve about me more than she can help.' You see, he
realized the news of his loss of sight would be a sore blow to you."
"Oh, it has been, Uncle John! I—I haven't been a bit brave—father
would be disappointed in me if he knew. But, oh, blindness seems so
terrible! It is so hard to think of father—blind!"
Mr. Basset sighed.
"Very hard," he agreed. "But, now," he continued, "we mustn't stay
here any longer, for supper's to be early to-night on my account, and
you'll want to bathe your face, won't you?"
The two returned to the house together. Miss Basset and May saw them
coming from the drawing-room window; and the latter hurried into the
hall and went upstairs with Josephine.
"Dear," she whispered, her blue eyes tender with sympathy, "I'm so
sorry—so very, very sorry for your father! Donald will be, too, when
I write and tell him! Oh, it must be terrible to be blind!"
Josephine drew a quick breath, and assented. Then she told May the
message her father had sent her, adding: "I'm going to try to do as
he says and not grieve about him more than I can help. Perhaps, after
all, the doctors have made a mistake and he may get his sight back
after a time. If he doesn't—if it is God's will he should remain
blind, then I know God will be with him."
"It is a great thing to feel that," May answered.
"Yes," Josephine agreed, "and the greatest comfort. Just for a little
while I forgot it, though every day I pray—
"Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
Be his light and guide,
Keep, oh keep him, in his weakness,
At Thy side."
"But, now I've had time to think and Uncle John has given me father's
message, I know father's all right. He loves Jesus, and Jesus is at
his side."