FEARS FOR OTHERS.
THE joyous feelings of the boys were damped by their first sight of
their uncle's face. It was kind as ever, but so grave, so pale, they
felt at once that something serious must have happened.
"Do not leave the carriage, my dear boys," said Mr. Presgrave. "I
cannot suffer you at present to enter the house."
"Mamma! Where is she? What is the matter?" exclaimed Tom and Willy,
with a vague sense of fear.
"She is well, my children, quite well, thank God! The anxiety and
sorrow are mine. Your poor aunt is now lying in a critical state—"
his lips quivered as he spoke—"from an attack of malignant fever; and
as the doctor cannot yet positively declare that the malady is not
infectious in its nature, we have thankfully accepted the offer of Sir
Hugh Moncton to receive you for a few days till the issue is known."
The poor boys looked at each other with mingled surprise and sorrow.
Willy asked if he might not see his mother, but this was not thought
advisable. After sending many a message of love, the boys were driven
slowly away.
"How little we know what a day may bring forth!" sighed Willy, after
some moments of silence. "We were so happy, and all seemed so bright!"
"Oh! I hope that aunt soon will recover," said Tom, "and then all will
be right again. If it were not the cause of our going, I should rather
like to visit at Sir Hugh's; they say he has the finest place in the
county, with dogs and horses, and everything grand, and Ned Moncton's a
splendid young fellow!"
With a faltering step and a heavy heart Mr. Presgrave re-entered the
house. Seldom through the course of a long life had clouds gathered
so darkly around him! Mrs. Gore had never hitherto permitted her
children to visit her neighbour, and now only a sudden and pressing
emergency induced her to expose her young sons to the dangerous
society of Anderdon Hall. Perhaps anxiety on their account weighed
upon Mr. Presgrave as heavily as upon their mother. The feebleness
and infirmities of age rendered him less able to struggle against
care, whilst the heaviest, to him, of all earthly afflictions, the
loss of the wife whom he deeply loved, seemed hanging over his head
like a thundercloud ready to burst. Much need had the aged man of the
sustaining power of his faith—again and again, he repeated to himself
as he feebly and slowly mounted the stairs, "'Why art thou cast down, O
my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I
shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'"
With noiseless step, he reached the sick-room—with trembling hand,
he unclosed the door, and listened for a moment ere he ventured to
enter. After the clear sunshine which he had left, how dark and gloomy
appeared that chamber! Drawn curtains shut out the cheerful day, the
air felt heavy and oppressive, cooling drinks and lotions lay on a
table by the bedside, no sound was heard but the ticking of a watch,
which seemed numbering the few moments of departing life.
Mrs. Gore glided silently to the door with her finger upon her lips.
"She sleeps still," she whispered, and gently drew her uncle to a
corner of the room which opened into the sick-chamber, that they might
converse in low tones without disturbing the sufferer.
"Have you seen my poor boys?" inquired the mother.
The old gentleman, in a few brief words, recounted all that had passed.
"O uncle!" said the lady, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I feel as though I
had sent my sons into a furnace of temptation! But how could I avoid
it? I could not safely have then here—there was no time to form other
arrangements—and yet, there is a burden on my soul."
"'Cast thy burden on the Lord, He will sustain thee'!" replied her
uncle, taking her hand into both of his own.
"O dear uncle! You are ever ready to comfort others, even when you must
most need comfort yourself. I know, too well I know, what you must be
suffering now; but you are so firm, so full of Christian courage!"
"No, my daughter," faltered the old man, while tears fast coursed each
other down his pale cheek. "I am like a poor, storm-tossed, helpless
wanderer, ready to sink in these waves of trouble; but I yet hear my
Saviour's voice in the storm—'It is I, be not afraid'!"
Mrs. Gore was one of those gentle beings, who, like creeping plants, so
closely, fondly cling round the objects of their tender affection, that
existence itself appears wrapped up in theirs. Quiet, retiring, even to
timidity, her husband and her children had formed her little world, and
on earth she sought nothing beyond. Her delicate features, her gentle,
sweet smile, bore impress of goodness which even strangers could not
mistake; but those who knew her best were alone aware of the firmness,
the self-devotion, in the character of one whom religious principle,
like a guiding star, directed in the path of life. Gentle in manner,
timid in nature, duty or affection could nerve her to courage; and
afraid of infection as she from childhood had been, and eager as she
felt to welcome home her boys, without a murmur she was ready to forego
the joy and meet the danger, for she felt that God had marked out the
course she should pursue.
But to a spirit like hers, the illness of a loved one was a trial
peculiarly severe; while her tenderness of conscience and dread of evil
rendered her painfully anxious for her sons. "One may bear personal
trials firmly," said the tender mother, sitting down and resting her
head on her hand, "but to see those whom we love suffer, and not be
able to relieve them—to see them in peril, and not be able to succour
them."
"We must trust them," said Mr. Presgrave more hopefully and firmly,
"to Him who loves them yet better than we do. We can aid them still by
fervent prayer to Him who orders all things in heaven and earth; and,
like the friends of the paralytic man, lay our loved ones 'at the feet
of Jesus'!"