THE VICTORY
Meanwhile Mara had been lying in the passive calm of fatigue and
exhaustion, her eyes fixed on the window, where, as the white curtain
drew inward, she could catch glimpses of the bay. Gradually her eyelids
fell, and she dropped into that kind of half-waking doze, when the outer
senses are at rest, and the mind is all the more calm and clear for
their repose. In such hours a spiritual clairvoyance often seems to lift
for a while the whole stifling cloud that lies like a confusing mist
over the problem of life, and the soul has sudden glimpses of things
unutterable which lie beyond. Then the narrow straits, that look so full
of rocks and quicksands, widen into a broad, clear passage, and one
after another, rosy with a celestial dawn, and ringing silver bells of
gladness, the isles of the blessed lift themselves up on the horizon,
and the soul is flooded with an atmosphere of light and joy. As the
burden of Christian fell off at the cross and was lost in the sepulchre,
so in these hours of celestial vision the whole weight of life's anguish
is lifted, and passes away like a dream; and the soul, seeing the
boundless ocean of Divine love, wherein all human hopes and joys and
sorrows lie so tenderly upholden, comes and casts the one little drop of
its personal will and personal existence with gladness into that
Fatherly depth. Henceforth, with it, God and Saviour is no more word of
mine and thine, for in that hour the child of earth feels himself heir
of all things: "All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is
God's."
* * * * *
"The child is asleep," said Miss Roxy, as she stole on tiptoe into the
room when their noon meal was prepared. A plate and knife had been laid
for her, and they had placed for her a tumbler of quaint old engraved
glass, reputed to have been brought over from foreign parts, and which
had been given to Miss Roxy as her share in the effects of the
mysterious Mr. Swadkins. Tea also was served in some egg-like India
china cups, which saw the light only on the most high and festive
occasions.
"Hadn't you better wake her?" said Miss Ruey; "a cup of hot tea would do
her so much good."
Miss Ruey could conceive of few sorrows or ailments which would not be
materially better for a cup of hot tea. If not the very elixir of life,
it was indeed the next thing to it.
"Well," said Miss Roxy, after laying her hand for a moment with great
gentleness on that of the sleeping girl, "she don't wake easy, and she's
tired; and she seems to be enjoying it so. The Bible says, 'He giveth
his beloved sleep,' and I won't interfere. I've seen more good come of
sleep than most things in my nursin' experience," said Miss Roxy, and
she shut the door gently, and the two sisters sat down to their noontide
meal.
"How long the child does sleep!" said Miss Ruey as the old clock struck
four.
"It was too much for her, this walk down here," said Aunt Roxy. "She's
been doin' too much for a long time. I'm a-goin' to put an end to that.
Well, nobody needn't say Mara hain't got resolution. I never see a
little thing have more. She always did have, when she was the leastest
little thing. She was always quiet and white and still, but she did
whatever she sot out to."
At this moment, to their surprise, the door opened, and Mara came in,
and both sisters were struck with a change that had passed over her. It
was more than the result of mere physical repose. Not only had every
sign of weariness and bodily languor vanished, but there was about her
an air of solemn serenity and high repose that made her seem, as Miss
Ruey afterwards said, "like an angel jest walked out of the big Bible."
"Why, dear child, how you have slept, and how bright and rested you
look," said Miss Ruey.
"I am rested," said Mara; "oh how much! And happy," she added, laying
her little hand on Miss Roxy's shoulder. "I thank you, dear friend, for
all your kindness to me. I am sorry I made you feel so sadly; but now
you mustn't feel so any more, for all is well--yes, all is well. I see
now that it is so. I have passed beyond sorrow--yes, forever."
Soft-hearted Miss Ruey here broke into audible sobbing, hiding her face
in her hands, and looking like a tumbled heap of old faded calico in a
state of convulsion.
"Dear Aunt Ruey, you mustn't," said Mara, with a voice of gentle
authority. "We mustn't any of us feel so any more. There is no harm
done, no real evil is coming, only a good which we do not understand. I
am perfectly satisfied--perfectly at rest now. I was foolish and weak to
feel as I did this morning, but I shall not feel so any more. I shall
comfort you all. Is it anything so dreadful for me to go to heaven? How
little while it will be before you all come to me! Oh, how
little--little while!"
"I told you, Mara, that you'd be supported in the Lord's time," said
Miss Roxy, who watched her with an air of grave and solemn attention.
"First and last, folks allers is supported; but sometimes there is a
long wrestlin'. The Lord's give you the victory early."
"Victory!" said the girl, speaking as in a deep muse, and with a
mysterious brightness in her eyes; "yes, that is the word--it _is_ a
victory--no other word expresses it. Come, Aunt Roxy, we will go home. I
am not afraid now to tell grandpapa and grandmamma. God will care for
them; He will wipe away all tears."
"Well, though, you mus'n't think of goin' till you've had a cup of tea,"
said Aunt Ruey, wiping her eyes. "I've kep' the tea-pot hot by the fire,
and you must eat a little somethin', for it's long past dinner-time."
"Is it?" said Mara. "I had no idea I had slept so long--how thoughtful
and kind you are!"
"I do wish I could only do more for you," said Miss Ruey. "I don't seem
to get reconciled no ways; it seems dreffle hard--dreffle; but I'm glad
you _can_ feel so;" and the good old soul proceeded to press upon the
child not only the tea, which she drank with feverish relish, but every
hoarded dainty which their limited housekeeping commanded.
It was toward sunset before Miss Roxy and Mara started on their walk
homeward. Their way lay over the high stony ridge which forms the
central part of the island. On one side, through the pines, they looked
out into the boundless blue of the ocean, and on the other caught
glimpses of Harpswell Bay as it lay glorified in the evening light. The
fresh cool breeze blowing landward brought with it an invigorating
influence, which Mara felt through all her feverish frame. She walked
with an energy to which she had long been a stranger. She said little,
but there was a sweetness, a repose, in her manner contrasting
singularly with the passionate melancholy which she had that morning
expressed.
Miss Roxy did not interrupt her meditations. The nature of her
profession had rendered her familiar with all the changing mental and
physical phenomena that attend the development of disease and the
gradual loosening of the silver cords of a present life. Certain
well-understood phrases everywhere current among the mass of the people
in New England, strikingly tell of the deep foundations of religious
earnestness on which its daily life is built. "A triumphant death" was a
matter often casually spoken of among the records of the neighborhood;
and Miss Roxy felt that there was a vague and solemn charm about its
approach. Yet the soul of the gray, dry woman was hot within her, for
the conversation of the morning had probed depths in her own nature of
whose existence she had never before been so conscious. The roughest and
most matter-of-fact minds have a craving for the ideal somewhere; and
often this craving, forbidden by uncomeliness and ungenial surroundings
from having any personal history of its own, attaches itself to the
fortune of some other one in a kind of strange disinterestedness. Some
one young and beautiful is to live the life denied to them--to be the
poem and the romance; it is the young mistress of the poor black
slave--the pretty sister of the homely old spinster--or the clever son
of the consciously ill-educated father. Something of this unconscious
personal investment had there been on the part of Miss Roxy in the
nursling whose singular loveliness she had watched for so many years,
and on whose fair virgin orb she had marked the growing shadow of a
fatal eclipse, and as she saw her glowing and serene, with that peculiar
brightness that she felt came from no earthly presence or influence, she
could scarcely keep the tears from her honest gray eyes.
When they arrived at the door of the house, Zephaniah Pennel was sitting
in it, looking toward the sunset.
"Why, reely," he said, "Miss Roxy, we thought you must a-run away with
Mara; she's been gone a'most all day."
"I expect she's had enough to talk with Aunt Roxy about," said Mrs.
Pennel. "Girls goin' to get married have a deal to talk about, what with
patterns and contrivin' and makin' up. But come in, Miss Roxy; we're
glad to see you."
Mara turned to Miss Roxy, and gave her a look of peculiar meaning. "Aunt
Roxy," she said, "you must tell them what we have been talking about
to-day;" and then she went up to her room and shut the door.
Miss Roxy accomplished her task with a matter-of-fact distinctness to
which her business-like habits of dealing with sickness and death had
accustomed her, yet with a sympathetic tremor in her voice which
softened the hard directness of her words. "You can take her over to
Portland, if you say so, and get Dr. Wilson's opinion," she said, in
conclusion. "It's best to have all done that can be, though in my mind
the case is decided."
The silence that fell between the three was broken at last by the sound
of a light footstep descending the stairs, and Mara entered among them.
She came forward and threw her arms round Mrs. Pennel's neck, and kissed
her; and then turning, she nestled down in the arms of her old
grandfather, as she had often done in the old days of childhood, and
laid her hand upon his shoulder. There was no sound for a few moments
but one of suppressed weeping; but _she_ did not weep--she lay with
bright calm eyes, as if looking upon some celestial vision.
"It is not so very sad," she said at last, in a gentle voice, "that I
should go there; you are going, too, and grandmamma; we are all going;
and we shall be forever with the Lord. Think of it! think of it!"
Many were the words spoken in that strange communing; and before Miss
Roxy went away, a calmness of solemn rest had settled down on all. The
old family Bible was brought forth, and Zephaniah Pennel read from it
those strange words of strong consolation, which take the sting from
death and the victory from the grave:--
"And I heard a great voice out of heaven. Behold the tabernacle of God
is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people;
and God himself shall be with them and be their God. And God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow nor crying, for the former things are passed away."