LIFE LESSONS.
"NOW, remember," said Mr. Rawdon authoritatively, having stepped
with Annie into the drawing-room, where he stood pulling on his
gloves—"remember, Miss Wilmot, the less you dwell on that thought, and
the less you allow your father to dwell on it, the better for him."
"But how can I help—?" sobbed the poor girl, for the moment entirely
overcome.
"You must help it. Self-control in this matter is essential for your
father's sake. It is not merely a question of talking. He reads every
turn of your face, and if he sees you unlike yourself, sad and unhappy,
you will act as a perpetual reminder of that which he ought to forget
as much as possible."
"I will try hard—indeed I will," said Annie brokenly. "But if—if—"
"No; you are not to indulge in that 'if.' Understand me, Miss
Wilmot. Your father is not suffering in the remotest degree from any
premonitory symptoms of hydrophobia."
"You are quite—quite sure?"
"Perfectly sure. There is not a sign of anything of the kind about him.
Some weeks ago I confess I did feel anxious for a time. He was under
great depression, and living in a constant expectation of ill results.
You must have remarked his depression. That has all passed off now. I
cannot say he has entirely lost the expectation—perhaps I should rather
say the distinct sense of what might come. But it is not depression,
and it is not fear. I was wrong to use that word. He faces the matter
in a wonderfully manly and Christian spirit. I wish he could banish the
subject from his mind; but no doubt the present state of his health
acts upon him, and lessens the power of self-restraint."
"His heart?" Annie strove to say.
"Yes—the mischief is there." Mr. Rawdon spoke in a grave tone. "I was
not satisfied two years ago—but he seemed so far to rally from the
weakness, that one had almost ceased to recall it. No doubt there has
been mischief long brewing, which must sooner or later have declared
itself. The strain and agitation of this summer have only hastened
matters."
"But he will be better—he will get stronger by-and-by," said Annie
imploringly. "When this dreadful year is over, and we are sure—"
"Yes, I hope so." Mr. Rawdon's voice was still more grave. "We must
check his doing too much."
"If he were to get away for change? Could he not take his holiday
sooner?"
"That has been discussed already. It is a difficult question," Mr.
Rawdon said thoughtfully. "The fact is, I don't like his going far
with only you—and he seems scarcely in a state for much travelling.
If change could mean full occupation of mind—but too much leisure for
thought is not at all desirable. Perhaps a moderate amount of work
is better at present. But we shall see. You must try, for his sake,
to take a cheerful view of things, and do your best to keep up his
spirits. Good-bye now. I will look in to-morrow. But mind, he is not to
count himself a regular invalid."
"No," said Annie.
She found it hard to respond, hard to lift her eyes—the trouble which
had come upon her seemed so very terrible. She dreaded going to the
study to meet her father's look. When Mr. Rawdon was gone, she turned
mechanically into the dining-room, and stood there in an attitude of
hopeless despondency.
Only half-an-hour or so earlier she had sat just here, a light-hearted
girl still, speaking to other light-hearted girls of troubles that
might one day come, and how they should be borne. What had she known
then of trouble?
Yet her words had been true, and she knew it. But she could not feel or
see their truth now. She could only bow her head beneath the blow.
"I was dumb, I opened not my mouth: because Thou didst it."
But she could not reach beyond "dumbness." She could not look up and
say, "It is well."
After all, was there any need—as yet? The blow had only just fallen:
and He who sent it knew its weight, knew her weakness. Annie had only
just entered the School of Sorrow, and He who called her into it could
pity her faltering steps with all a mother's tenderness.
She had to go back to her father. That recollection came soon, and
Annie yielded to its call. Leaving the dining-room, where she had stood
alone with clasped hands and drooping head, she crept thither.
And she had to look bright, to seem cheerful, to wear a face of calm
unconsciousness! How could she, with this weight upon her heart?
"I have been looking for you," her father said. "Come here, my child."
Annie did as he told her. She knelt down beside the couch, and laid her
face against him.
"That is the right attitude for both of us, isn't it?" said Mr. Wilmot
softly.
"Father—" Annie tried to say, hardly knowing what she meant to utter.
But the broken word was taken up in quiet accents—
"Father, Thy will, not ours, be done."
Annie shivered; and he spoke again—
"'The King's servants said unto the King, "Behold, Thy servants are
ready to do whatsoever my Lord the King shall appoint."'"
Another little break.
"It is not for us to choose, nor for us to resist. He has His own
mighty and loving purposes. We have but to be ready—ready to do—ready
to bear—'whatsoever' Christ our King may appoint."
"But we may pray—pray—" she sobbed.
"Yes, pray and plead as earnestly as you will; only in the spirit
always of Christ's prayer—'Thy will—not mine.'"
"O father, I can't say that, and I thought it would be so easy if
trouble came—only not this trouble."
"Poor little Annie! My poor child! Yes, it is always so with us, 'only
not this!' But He understands and pities. No pity was ever like His
pity. He will teach you in His own good time. He knows how, for He has
gone through all the worst of it Himself—worse agony than any of us can
ever have to bear. And it is enough meanwhile to sit at His feet, to
hear His voice. No more blessed position than that! He is so merciful.
He doesn't hurry us, like man, in the lesson learning."
Mr. Wilmot spoke slowly, in brief sentences. "No, I am not hurting
myself. But I can speak from experience, Annie. I have learnt much this
summer—much of His exceeding gentleness. Where He lays His hand most
heavily, He brings the sweetest balm."
"If only you had told me, father! To bear it alone!"
"Alone! I had my Master's presence."
Annie looked up, but she could not face his smile. Her head sank anew.
"There was the battling for awhile—not easy, but close to His side. I
seem to have reached beyond the battling lately—to a quiet spot. One of
His green pastures, I suppose. He gives rest when it is needful. But my
child need not go through all that I went through. It is not necessary.
That dread is over now. Mr. Rawdon was mistaken. I have no fear."
"He said so," she whispered.
"No fear, and no expectation. For some weeks I did expect it,—to be
called Home by a fiery chariot. Not now. I think it will not be—that!"
She might have read his full meaning, but she did not, wrapped up as
she was in the one dread.
He lifted Annie's face between his hands, and kissed it.
"Now, my little woman, we must obey orders. It does not take very much
to bring on irregular action of the heart, and I had better not risk
another attack of breathlessness. We have talked long enough on sad
subjects. Try to forget what you have heard, and leave all in the hands
of One who knows what is best for us. I want you to put those rose buds
in water, or the poor little things will die. Then you shall tell me
about your class, and about Nancy Dunn."
Annie rose at once to obey. Somehow she seemed to catch a reflection of
her father's calm. She knew that she must keep up, for his sake.