To my extreme satisfaction—for there was a vast deal in this wild,
out-of-the-world place which particularly took my fancy—uncle and aunt
decided upon our remaining a week at Rathfelder's Hotel. Dear aunt had
passed a better night than she had done for a long while, Uncle Rossiter
said, which made him desirous of trying the effect of a longer stay, and
he should go home that day to arrange accordingly and bring back Susan to
attend us.
Aunt met my examining eyes fixed upon her—oh, she knew not how
anxiously—and smiled lovingly upon me. It was a bright smile, and yet a
sad one too. Ah me! what keen note I was beginning to take of every look
and tone which came from her now!
"But why can't you sleep, aunty?" inquired Charlotte, carelessly. "Aren't
you well?"
"One thing is certain, dear Lotty: we cannot expect always to enjoy the
same health," she replied, I thought evasively. "By-the-bye," she
continued, abruptly changing the subject, "we must not forget, dear,"
turning to Uncle Rossiter, "that our wardrobes will require an addition
with this unexpected increase of absence from home, so please bear that in
mind and mention it to Susan."
In the course of the morning aunt and I went into the garden to enjoy its
shade and sweetness. Charlotte preferred remaining on the balcony with her
books and work, and as we were the only visitors at that time in the
hotel, she would not be interrupted. Having taken a few turns about the
paths, we seated ourselves on a rustic bench delightfully shaded by a
narquotte tree, whose branches were clustered over with a delicious little
golden fruit, while the surrounding air was redolent of odour from a group
of young lemon trees in full bloom, and other rich scents.
And now I turned over in my mind how best to introduce the subject nearest
my heart. Happily, Aunt Rossiter opened a way for me at once by saying,
anxiously: "What makes my little girl so unusually grave and silent this
morning? I trust you are not ill, dear child? or has anything occurred
between Charlotte and yourself to vex you?"
Upon that I reminded her of her words to Lotty on the previous evening,
saying how much the thought of a separation distressed me, and begging her
to tell me where she was going to and for what reason, whether on a visit
or for change of air.
She did not immediately speak, and I heard her suppress a sigh as, putting
her arm round me, she drew me slowly to her side and fondly pressed her
lips to my cheek. This silent action spoke volumes to my already trembling
heart. An intolerable sensation of anguish, as on the preceding night,
came down upon me like lead, oppressing my very breathing. She had
confessed nothing, but yet I now felt, felt for a certainty, that I knew
all—knew that my worst apprehensions were correct, that death was the
coming separation.
Presently she spoke; her voice was a little unsteady, but low and calm:
"My beloved child, remember that not a sparrow falls without the will of
our heavenly Father. Whatever happens to his servants, whether of outward
weal or woe, is certain to be for the best."
"You never said you were ill," I answered, in choking words. "Oh, aunt,
why did you not tell me before?"
"Until quite lately I was quite ignorant of the seriousness of my
complaint. Even Dr. Manfred was misled by delusive appearances, and
believed that I should recover; but God in his wisdom sees fit to ordain
it otherwise, and his will be done!" Again she lovingly kissed my cheek,
and I unconsciously drew myself away and sat up. A feeling as though I had
been stunned half bewildered me. By degrees this passed off, and then, oh
how changed everything seemed to me! The brightness of the sun and the
flowers, the scented air, the glad voice of birds and brook, were all now
but as a hollow mockery of happiness, and I marvelled how they could look
and sound so joyous while I felt so unutterably miserable.
At this instant Blurdon came by with his spade on his broad shoulder, and
gave me a quick, defiant glance. Something in my face—the impress, I
suppose, of the dreary feeling of woe which possessed my whole
being—caused him to look again and almost stop.
"You must find this very hot weather for working," aunt said in her kind,
winning voice.
"What's the matter with her?" he returned for answer, stopping and
indicating myself with a jerk of his thumb.
Aunt hesitated for an instant, and then said: "In common with all human
beings, my little girl finds it very difficult and painful sometimes to
submit her will to that of her heavenly Father."
"Why, what's she been a-doing of? What harm can the likes of such a soft
little creature as that do?" he growled, eyeing me with a perplexed and
perplexing stare, for was it possible that this wild, savage, strange man
felt sorry for me? And yet I thought he looked as if he did.
"Judging from the style of your accusations against her this morning, you
did not then consider her so innocent or harmless," rejoined Aunt
Rossiter, smiling, and with intent, I knew, to check further questioning
on his part. It instantly took the desired effect.
"Ah, that's true enough!" he exclaimed, savagely. "I'd forgot that, I had.
No, it's not always, nor maybe never, for the matter of that, the most
innocent-looking things are the safest. I knowed a-many flowers up country
as soft and pure to see as she be," nodding his shaggy head at me, "and
yet they was as full of poison as they could hold—ay, that they was!" and
with another defiant glance, that seemed to dare me to do my worst, he
strode on his way.
I longed to ask Aunt Rossiter whether she was very ill, whether the doctor
had said she would die soon; but besides that the mere uttering such
woeful words made me shrink, I dreaded her answer. I felt if she told me,
"Yes, in all human probability she must leave us speedily," I could not
bear it.
Once more she came to my assistance. Again putting her arm around my waist
and drawing me close to her, she said, in her usual cheerful,
heart-comforting voice: "It does not follow, my precious child, that
because my disease is mortal it will in consequence be brief. Under the
blessing of the Almighty, human skill and care may keep me with my beloved
on earth much longer than I think. Trust in the mercy and wisdom of our
heavenly Father, therefore, my little daughter; pray for me, pray that he
will, if he sees good—only on that condition—permit me to remain amongst
you yet a while."
I could only kiss her fondly; I could not speak. "Oh," thought I, "if
prayers and entreaties to heaven, if love and care and skill can obtain
it, will we not try!"
If only a few days ago sweet, gentle aunty had uttered such uncertain
words, how sad and comfortless would they have sounded to my then
all-confident soul! but now they came as a bright flash of hope piercing
the gloom which enveloped my heart, like an indefinite reprieve to one
condemned to execution. One of the wisest, most merciful arrangements of
Nature is that gradual advance toward the completion of her works, and not
the least so among them is the ready buoyancy of youth—that happy
tendency, the result of the ignorance of inexperience, to turn away from
the shadowed to the sunny side of life's path. Were it otherwise, were
distress and grief to cling to us in the springtime of our existence as in
its autumn, alas! how aged should we prematurely become! How soon would
the winter of life settle down upon our heads and heart—ay, before the
sunshine has even come.
From that day forward, my first, my ever-anxious prayer was for our
beloved protectress, my constant thought and care to promote her comfort
and guard her from every breath of harm. And as time went on, bringing
with it a perceptible change for the better in her general health, so my
spirit lightened of its load of solicitude. Albeit I was conscious that
the sorrow of that day had cast a shadow between my heart and its before
unreflecting joyousness which neither event nor time could remove, yet it
was a merciful lesson, teaching my inexperienced soul the uncertainty of
all human happiness, teaching me that in the midst of life—ay, the
brightest, the most seemingly blessed and prosperous life—we are in death.
Ah, boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may
bring forth!