THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going
to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she
were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to
remain.
"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.
"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie,
and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."
Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring,
she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine,
and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs.
Alroy.
Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she
sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt
that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was
intended.
When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the
second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie,
she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery.
But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and
she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.
In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled
as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went
to her visitor's heart.
"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I
will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit
are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.
"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you--you know their odor is too strong
for a sick-room--but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly
to your mother."
Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and
went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.
Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacs
in, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait.
The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestine
had done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the little
kitchen.
"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton's
anxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only,
although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heart
and she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easier
now--which is not a good sign, you know--and wants to see you. She has
asked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wants
to see you alone."
They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign from
the nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton's
outstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former said
quietly:
"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And I
cannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. You
are not in a hurry?"
"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate to
command me."
"You know something of my past life--so I found out yesterday. I need
not touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. But
it is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own--that lies beyond our
knowing--but of my daughter's--"
The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burton
walked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising to
her eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and as
Mrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:
"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and I
have placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestine
will be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish to
speak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am about
to ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; your
daughter is her dearest friend--"
"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please both
of us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with us
for as long a time as she may desire."
"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage to
live--but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but only
for the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-school
examination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear the
separation, and after that--in the shadow of death pride vanishes, and
I have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settle
everything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyes
wearily.
Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand
gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes,
continued:
"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about
my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last
blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to
live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold
me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only
profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she
has--and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must
ask you to do for me. I have only a hope--to you that hope is certainty.
Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You
will stay here awhile?"
"Anything I can do for you is too little."
"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is
it?"
"Half past eleven."
"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea
for you."
"Oh, no--"
"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is
now."
Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she
asked gently.
"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton
will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself.
The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."
The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.
After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage,
spoke.
"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something
which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know.
She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to
you. But you will one day go to her."
Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is
going--"
"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of
death, yet she fears no evil. You--and I and all who love you and
her--are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the
Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"
"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is
all I have--all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.
Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for
some minutes. Then she said gently:
"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be
free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."
"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.
Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's
hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.
When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned toward
her with a smile.
"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."
The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward evening
Mrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been a
stormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will go
to sleep."
And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touched
by the dreaded pain.
When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, and
she allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs.
Burton.
When she returned to her own home again, the little room had been
transformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under their
fragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips.
Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handsome man, who put his
arms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He had
come at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.
All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listen
to the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to the
living; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that she
might lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks of
the Hudson.