CONCLUSION.
"DON'T you think you could manage the walk, dear, to-day?" said Mabel
coaxingly one Sunday morning after breakfast.
Isabel looked dubious. "Couldn't we sit here and read?" she said.
"It isn't like going to church," said Mabel discontentedly.
She and Isabel had been pretty regular in their attendance lately, for
Mr. Randolph, finding his younger daughter wished to go, had ordered
that the carriage should always be in readiness to take her. Sometimes
he had gone with her himself, and sometimes her mother and Julia had
joined them.
Altogether it had been a very happy summer to Isabel and her father.
She suffered from languor and weakness during the hottest part of the
weather. But since the summer had begun to wane, and the days to grow
cooler, she had felt better. And so Mabel felt sure she could walk to
church if she tried, and she pressed it upon her as a positive duty.
They could not have the carriage to-day, for Mrs. Randolph wished to go
and see a friend at a distance who was ill. And Mr. Randolph was away
upon business, so that Isabel could not have that excuse for staying at
home, thought Mabel.
She had discovered that if Isabel did not go to church on Sunday, she
generally contrived to go and see Mrs. Barker during the following
week, and she was still a little jealous of the old lady's influence
over her cousin, and had never quite forgiven her for sundry home
truths that had been spoken to herself. As one of the people whom
she—Mabel—was supposed to be able to teach, it was not pleasant to go
and see her, as Isabel did, in the character of a scholar. And so now
she pressed Isabel to go to church with the greater pertinacity on this
account.
"Very well, dear, I'll go," said Isabel at last. But even as she spoke,
she heaved something like a sigh of weariness at the prospect of such a
long walk.
"That's right, make haste and get your things on," said Mabel briskly.
"It will be a lovely walk across the fields such a fine morning."
Mabel enjoyed the walk immensely, but before they reached the church,
she could not but notice how tired Isabel seemed. "I am afraid I have
walked too fast for you, dear," she said. "We will go more slowly."
"I am tired," admitted Isabel. "I hope it won't rain before we get
home," she added in a little alarm. "Look at those clouds over there."
Mabel did look, and tried to laugh off her cousin's fears. But after
they got into church, instead of attending to the service, her eyes and
thoughts wandered to the opposite window, where she could see that the
clouds were slowly gathering in blackness all round. Poor Isabel was
spared this anxiety, for she was too weary to think of anything, and
sat leaning back in the corner with her eyes closed, looking utterly
worn out. But presently there was a sound that roused even her dormant
faculties, for the rain-drops were pattering on the windows, and she
looked at Mabel in dismay.
"It won't last long," whispered her cousin confidently.
But the rain continued to come down steadily and incessantly, so that
it seemed impossible for either of them to attend to the service for
the fright this had caused them.
"Perhaps mamma did not go before the rain came on, and she will send
the carriage," whispered Isabel when the service was over, and the
people began to move.
Mabel nodded. "We will wait here until it comes," she said. "You sit
still, and I'll go and look if it is here yet."
Mabel made several journeys to the church door, but each was
unsuccessful. And at last they began to see that they would have to
leave the church, for the sexton wanted to close the doors.
"You'll get a cab round the corner," he said. And not knowing what
else to do, the two girls started off in quest of one. But they walked
nearly half a mile, and got very wet before one was found.
Isabel went to bed as soon as she reached home, and Mabel took care
that every remedy she knew of as being good for a cold should be
promptly applied. And doubtless it did her cousin a great deal of good,
but it could not undo the mischief that the long walk, and the fright,
and the wetting had done.
When Mr. Randolph came home the next day, he found his younger daughter
very ill. And though the doctor spoke lightly of it as a "slight
attack," the anxious father was very much alarmed.
But Isabel began to improve after the first day or two, and by the
end of the week she was able to leave her bed, and be carried to the
couch in her own sitting-room. Everybody hoped that she would soon be
down-stairs again now, but her progress towards convalescence seemed to
be arrested at this point. The weather was cold and damp, and although
always bright and cheerful, it seemed as though the springs of her life
had been chilled and exhausted.
Mr. Randolph soon grew anxious again, and talked of calling in a
physician to see her, but Isabel begged him so earnestly to wait a
little longer before doing this that at last he consented to wait for a
week to see if there was any further improvement.
Mabel could not understand why her cousin should have such an objection
to the physician being sent for. And when they were by themselves she
said, "Why are you so afraid of this physician, Isabel?"
"I do not think I am afraid exactly, dear, but—but I want to get used
to the thought of going home soon before papa knows it."
"Going—home—soon," uttered Mabel with whitening lips. "Oh, Bella,
Bella, what have I done?" she gasped, covering her face with her hands.
"Don't—don't, Mabel," said the invalid, gently drawing down her hands.
"But what do you mean? You cannot mean that—that—" and Mabel stopped.
"That I am going to begin to live in earnest soon, that is it; this
earth life has only been a half-dying sort of life. I have never been
able to do as other girls did, but it will be changed soon, and I shall
begin to live thoroughly—think of it, Mabel—to live, to live!" said
Isabel exultantly.
"But, my darling, I don't understand," said her cousin, wiping away the
fast-falling tears; "how can you know this?"
"The voice has told me—the Seed, and the Word, and the Light, and the
Voice—they all mean the same thing, Mrs. Barker says. And so you see I
cannot be mistaken, for God Himself has told me that I am going home
soon. I shall not get stronger, as dear papa hopes, but weaker and
weaker until the end comes."
"Then why not have the physician at once? He might recommend something
that would do you good."
But Isabel shook her head. "He would tell papa to take me away to Nice,
or Mentone, or some of those places, and I want to die at home, with
you and papa and everybody that loves me. You will stay with me to the
very last, won't you, Mabel?"
"Yes, yes. But, oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Mabel, wringing her
hands in agony.
"Nothing, dear. That little cold I caught did not cause this. I have
been learning to know it all the summer. I have been just slipping away
for a long time, I think—ever since my cough got worse in the spring,
but the last few days I have known it would be soon now."
Mabel sat crying silently by her cousin's couch. Oh how bitterly
she regretted urging her cousin to go to church now, and the pride
and jealousy of Mrs. Barker that led to it! She had succeeded in
persuading herself at the time that as it was a good thing to go to
church, therefore it must be good for her and Isabel to go. But no such
sophistry would avail her now. It might be, as Isabel said, that this
had not caused the more serious part of her illness, but she believed
herself and she knew her uncle and aunt also believed, that this had
been the active cause of arousing all the more serious mischief.
Poor Mabel! She was indeed to be pitied, and the more, perhaps, that
for the last few months she had set herself steadily to the task of
rooting out the seeds of pride that hindered the growth of the good
seed in her heart. She had been more pleasant and yielding with Julia,
been less watchful for any little affront that might be offered to
herself, and more guarded in her own behaviour lest she should offend.
And that this should happen now, just when she thought she was gaining
a victory over herself, was indeed a trial and mystery to her.
Her uncle and aunt were, of course, very angry with her. And Mr.
Randolph at first felt inclined to yield to his wife's proposal, that
she should be sent home at once. But Isabel was so distressed when
she heard of it, and Mabel begged so earnestly to be allowed to stay
and nurse her cousin at least until she was a little better, that Mr.
Randolph yielded the point at last, but he could not wholly forgive
Mabel yet.
Before the end of the week stipulated for by Isabel, her father
insisted upon sending for the physician who had seen her once or twice
before, and the verdict he had to give was anxiously waited for by Mr.
Randolph. Alas! Before he saw her, the physician knew what that verdict
would have to be, and he almost dreaded to meet the searching gaze that
he knew awaited him down-stairs.
Mr. Randolph drew him into the library and shut the door. "Now, tell me
what you think of her, doctor," he said as he handed him a chair.
"It is useless for me to try and deceive you," said the physician
compassionately. And then as gently as he could, he told the
heart-stricken father all the truth—that there was no hope, and a few
weeks would probably end the mortal life of his best-beloved daughter.
Mr. Randolph proposed taking her away to the south of France at once,
but the physician shook his head. "It would be downright cruelty to
attempt it," he said. "If I had seen that such a change would have
done her any good, I should have ordered it last spring. But I knew
that the fatigue and excitement incident upon travelling, would but
have hastened the end, and you would only have taken her away to die.
Her gentle placid disposition, and the even tenor of her life, has
doubtless prolonged her existence by some months," added the physician.
"But she caught cold and got overfatigued a short time ago—it was that
that brought on the attack," said Mr. Randolph.
"It may have accelerated things a little, but this damp cold weather
has done the most mischief. If I am not greatly mistaken, she knows
herself that the end is near, for as I was leaving her she whispered,
'You will not send me away, doctor?' And her eyes said plainly enough
that she knew it would be of no use."
Mr. Randolph covered his face with his hands and groaned in agony.
"Forgive me, doctor," he said after a pause, "but the world will be
empty to me when she has left it. She has been the home sunshine, and
there is not a servant in the house but could tell you of some little
kindness done, some little considerate act in sparing them trouble, or
helping them over a difficulty—Oh, doctor, doctor, can nothing save
her?" he broke off, wringing his hands in anguish.
The physician was a Christian, and, valuable as his time was, he
contrived to spare an hour to sit and comfort the sorrow-stricken
father so that at last he was able to go to Isabel calm at least.
She saw in a moment that the physician had told him the truth, and
holding out her arms she said, "Papa, papa, it will not be for long; we
shall soon be together again. I have prayed for you, papa, and I know
that God is answering my prayers. He is taking me that He may win you
too, for He loves you, papa—loves you so much that He gave His only
begotten Son for you—for you, papa," she gasped, for the exertion of
saying so much had almost overpowered her.
"Hush, hush, my darling, you must not talk. Shall I send for nurse to
come and stay with you?" he asked.
She looked up at him quickly. "You won't send Mabel away, papa—poor
Mabel! She is almost breaking her heart as it is."
"No, dear, she shall stay if you wish it."
"I do wish it, papa. I could not do without her now, she helps me and
comforts me so much. But you may send for nursey too, she will like to
be here, I know, and she can sit beside me at night sometimes, and keep
the others company." For she knew that the servants almost quarrelled
among themselves for the privilege of "sitting up with Miss Isabel."
So it was arranged that nurse should be sent for to take up her
abode in the house. And before the messenger was sent with the note
requesting her to do this, Mabel contrived to say, "And you would like
to see Mrs. Barker sometimes, wouldn't you, dear? Shall I write and ask
her to walk over as often as she can?"
Isabel looked at her cousin. "Would you like it, Mabel?" she asked
eagerly.
"Yes, dear, I should now. I am ashamed of feeling jealous because she
took up my neglected work, and so had the joy of leading you first to
the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Never mind, you have helped me too; I don't know how I should have
got on without you, Mabel. But still I should like to see Mrs. Barker,
and have one more talk with her before I am too weak. Tell her to come
soon, Mabel."
Nurse was not long in obeying the summons to come to Isabel.
And the next morning Mrs. Barker appeared, to Mrs. Randolph's great
surprise, who could not understand why her daughter should want nurse's
lodger as well as herself.
But Isabel's lightest wish was law now, and so the old lady was taken
up to her room.
She was greatly moved at seeing Isabel so prostrate, and yet so calm
and happy. "I want to know just a little more about the seed," she
said. "You see, I cannot wait for the harvest, I am going home in the
springtime, and have only green blades. I do wish sometimes I could
have stayed for the fruit."
"But, my dear young lady, you are bearing fruit. The fruits of the
Spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness,
faith, meekness, temperance; these are of the heart, and are all that
God asks of you. He knows that active service and outward battling is
impossible for you, but that Christ is daily growing in you—that you
are one of the branches joined to the true Vine, and thus His life is
proved to be in you by these fruits of the Spirit, for without Him you
could do nothing."
"Oh, if I had not learned this—learned to love the Lord Jesus, who
loved me and gave Himself for me—how miserable I should be now!"
exclaimed Isabel. "I should have been unhappy and fretful, and
miserable at the thought of dying so young. But now I can trust God,
even for dear papa, for I know that the seed is beginning to grow in
him, and God will teach and help him to root up all the weeds that
hinder its growth."
It was the last long talk she was able to have with Mrs. Barker.
As the days went on, she grew rapidly weaker. She suffered very little
pain, beyond the restlessness at night. During the day she dozed a
great deal, or lay with Mabel's hand clasped in hers, occasionally
asking for a few verses from the Bible, or a hymn to be read to her.
But even this soon wearied her, and she would doze off again before
Mabel had read many lines.
Mr. Randolph rarely left the house now, except for an hour on the
most urgent business, and spent a great deal of his time in Isabel's
room, where he could not help learning much that he had never heard of
before, and which awoke in him thoughts, and desires, and resolutions
that afterwards blossomed into a consistent Christian life. So that
when at last the end came, and he had to give back to God the gift
intrusted to him for a little while, he could do it with a hope that by
and by he should join his beloved daughter in the kingdom where there
is no sickness and no partings.
As soon as her cousin's funeral was over, Mabel returned home a wiser
if a somewhat sadder girl.
As she stood in her own little room on the eve of her sixteenth
birthday, and thought of the hopes and aspirations she had spoken of to
herself the year before, she said half aloud: "Ah, the mistake I made
was looking too far ahead, and being too ambitious, and so I failed to
see the work that God had already given me—the duties that lay nearest
to me. Oh, dear, how much I have missed through this! But, God helping
me, Isabel shall not have died in vain, I will strive to be content
with the smallest service—the lowest place now."
And Mabel kept her word. It cost her many a hard battle before she
could quite settle down as her sister's governess and her mother's
helpful daughter. But she conquered at last, winning victory from
defeat, but never quite forgiving herself for the mistakes she made in
that most eventful year of her life.
THE END.