THE STORM GATHERING.
It was more than the _cramps_ and the _hypo_ which ailed Mrs. Barrett,
though at first it seemed much like both, and after seeing her fall away
to sleep, Edith went to her own room without a thought of danger. But
later in the morning, when she stood again by her mother’s bedside, and
saw how pinched her features were, and how old and worn she looked
without her teeth and puffs of hair, and how weak and helpless she
seemed, she began to feel some alarm and sent for the physician at once.
It was a severe cold, the doctor said, and there was no danger to be
apprehended; but Mrs. Barrett thought differently. She had a settled
conviction that the sickness coming on so fast was her last. She had
only come to America to die, and Edith would not long be troubled with
her, she said, in reproachful tones, which she meant should make her
daughter sorry that she had not been more pleased to see her. And Edith
was sorry, and made every possible amends by nursing her herself, and
staying constantly with her.
And yet with all the care Mrs. Barrett grew worse, and every succeeding
day found her weaker than the preceding one had left her. She did not
seem to have any vitality or rallying force, and without any real
disease sank so fast that within two weeks after her arrival in
Hampstead, she came to the point where she looked death in the face and
knew he was waiting for her.
There was no hope, and her only share in Edith’s grandeur would be a
costly coffin and a great funeral, when many would look upon her face,
never dreaming that they had seen it before. That was all, and she knew
it now, and as earth began to fade away, and the realities of the next
world loomed darkly in the distance, remorse came hand in hand with the
shadow of death, and filled her heart with horror and anguish when she
remembered the past and her sad, wasted life. It was no comfort to her
now that the baptismal waters had once bedewed her head, and she been
numbered outwardly with the children of God. To her there had never been
any reality in religion. Everything was done for effect, and because it
was respectable. For her there was no efficacy in Jesus’ blood, no heart
yearnings after His presence, or tears because she could not feel Him
with her. Even her praying had only been in public when it was the
proper thing to do, for by herself she never prayed, never till now,
when she stood face to face with death, and felt her burden of guilt and
sin rolling over her like a mountain, and crushing her to the earth.
Then conscience awoke, and like David she cried:
“My sin is ever before me.”
Oh, that one particular sin! How it haunted her day and night, seeming
so much larger than all the rest, and making her shrink away from
Edith’s presence and cover her head with the bed-clothes, so as not to
see the face bending so kindly over her. For many long years she had
slighted the Holy Spirit, and trampled on her conscience, until it would
almost seem that the one was hard as a rock and the other flown forever.
But God’s mercy is infinite, and He was giving her another chance, and
leading her back to Himself through the thorny path her own deeds had
made for her feet to walk in. At last when she could bear the anguish no
longer, and must speak to some one, she said to Gertie, who was sitting
with her that night:
“Gertie, are you a Christian? Do you ever pray?”
The question was very abrupt, and Gertie’s face flushed, and she waited
a little before answering:
“Yes, I pray, and hope I am a Christian in the sense you mean. And _you_
are a Christian, too?” she added, after a pause; and Mrs. Barrett said
quickly:
“No, never. There was nothing real; all was for effect, and now it is
like so many scorpions stinging me to madness, and one act hurts me
worse than all the rest. Gertie, if you had done something very wicked
years ago, something which nobody in the wide world knew besides you,
but which concerned another very, very much, _what_ would you do? you,
who pray and hope you are a Christian?”
Ordinarily Gertie would have thought herself too young and inexperienced
to offer advice to one so much her senior, and whom she had believed so
good a woman, but now words seemed put into her mouth, and she answered
unhesitatingly:
“I should ask God to forgive me; and if the person so much concerned was
within my reach I should confess it to him, I think.”
There was a bitter cry, and Gertie saw great drops of sweat on Mrs.
Barrett’s brow as she moaned:
“Yes, that is it,—only I must reverse it. Confess to her first, and then
I can dare to pray, which I cannot now. Oh, Gertie, Gertie,—never, never
tell a lie as long as you live.”
She was very much excited, and seemed at times to be out of her head,
and talked queer things of the _blue-eyed baby_, “the child who she
thinks is dead.”
“Oh, where is it now, and what was its fate?” she kept whispering to
herself, and once, as Gertie bent over her to bathe her head, she said,
“Are you she,—the girl, the child, you know?”
“No, I am only Gertie; try to sleep and not talk any more to-night. You
will be better in the morning and can tell Mrs. Schuyler,” Gertie said,
feeling intuitively that Edith was the person concerned in the secret
troubling the guilty woman so much.
She was sure of it when Mrs. Barrett answered:
“Yes, I must tell her. I must. Heaven give me strength to do it.”
Perhaps this was the first genuine prayer she had ever made, and as if
already better for it she became more quiet and slept sweetly till the
dawn of the morning, when Edith came to see how she had passed the night
and relieve Gertie of her watch.
“Go to bed now, child,” she said, “and I will see that you are not
called till lunch. You must be very tired.”
Gertie obeyed, and going to her own room, the adjoining one, was soon in
a deep sleep, while Edith took her place by Mrs. Barrett’s bedside.