"Yes, papa; I know. I have known it for two days now. I'll tell you how
I came to know. I overheard Ellis telling somebody that the doctor said
I was--dying. Dear, kind Ellis; I'm sure she would be sorry if she knew
I heard that; but she must not be told. I am so glad that I do know just
a little before, though it did make me feel very sad at first. Indeed, I
cried the whole night in the dark, papa; but now I feel as if it were
all right. And I don't think I'm afraid to die now, as I should have
been when I fell into the loch," she added, in a faltering tone.
"My darling, you must not talk so. And, besides, Ellis was not correct.
You have been very ill, but the doctor thinks you are much better now;
and when spring days come, my little Blanche will blossom again with the
flowers."
"No, papa dear; I don't really think I am better. I shall never get well
again, I know. But, as I lay here, I was thinking how sad it seemed to
go away from the world without having been of any use to anybody. And
just lately, too, I have seemed to understand better what life was meant
for, and to be interested in things I used not to care about. Do you
know why I was so anxious to make the dress for the poor lame fairy,
papa? I think I should like to tell you," and some of her old brightness
returned as she told the story of her visit to the poor child in the
comfortless abode. "She was so sad and poor that I felt sure she would
be glad to hear about the Lord Jesus Christ. Wouldn't you have thought
so, papa? But she did not seem to care, nor to believe that He loved her
at all. At last she said that if He were to send her a new dress and
boots, she might believe He was good and kind. But I am afraid I was not
able to make her understand about the Lord Jesus Christ. I wonder how I
can best tell her about Him, papa? if I am able to go to see her again
before"--and Blanche's voice faltered.
"My own darling! you must not speak so! You must try to get well, for my
sake, Blanchie. What should papa do without his little girl? And I am
afraid I do not know the Lord Jesus Christ really any more than the poor
pantomime fairy! You must stay with me, my child, and we will seek Him
together!"
"Dearest papa, He does teach people so wonderfully; I am sure He will
teach you to know and love Him. But I thought you must surely have loved
the Lord Jesus Christ ever so long ago," said Blanche, musingly, and
then she lay silent for several minutes.
Presently she turned to her father, with a face full of love and pity,
and laying her thin fluttering fingers on his arms, she said, "Papa,
dear, you will take Him for your friend now, will you not?--and He will
come and be very near you when I am far away. Kirsty says He was such a
friend to her when she was left sad and lonely in her cottage"--and with
the mention of Kirsty's name there came a rush of memories that made
Blanche's eyes fill with tears.
Her father noticed it, and a pang of jealousy shot through his heart.
She had spoken such sad words, calm and tearless; and it seemed hard
that the thought of those peasant friends, whom she might see no more on
earth, should be a sharper sorrow to the child's heart than the parting
from himself.
And so far he judged truly. Blanche loved her father dearly, but she did
not guess how great was his love for her, nor how shadowed his life
would be if she were gone.
As she gazed at the bowed head beside her, Blanche realized for the
first time how great and terrible the coming sorrow was to her father,
and she began to understand how true it is that in the partings of life
"theirs is the bitterness who stay behind."
The exertion of talking seemed to have been too much for the fragile
frame. Presently a violent fit of coughing came on, and again that
terrible crimson flow streamed from the white lips and on the deathly
face!
* * * * *
The winter storm had now set in, and the weather was cold and dark and
cheerless; but the interior of Blanche's room looked warm and bright as
Mr. Clifford walked into it, on his return from his lonely ride.
On the floor there lay strewed the Christmas gifts for Glen Eagle, and
from her sofa Blanche was having an inspection of them before they were
sent away. Ellis was doing duty as show-woman; and Blanche's old gleeful
laugh, which had become a rare sound now, was heard occasionally as she
listened to her maid's remarks concerning the various beautiful
presents, as she held them up for inspection.
Welcoming her papa with the old bright smile, Blanche beckoned him to
come and see the nice fur footstool which Miss Prosser had that morning
bought for Kirsty's cottage.
Mr. Clifford looked very sad as he came forward and took his place by
his daughter's couch. He could not help contrasting the pale fragile
form lying there, with the ringing childish laugh, which caused him
almost to forget, for the moment, the sad reality which these weeks had
brought.
Blanche's quick eye always detected her father's sadness, and she used
to try to chase it away by all the loving wiles which she could devise.
To the others round her she often talked of dying; but, since the time
that she saw her father's distress when the subject was approached, she
never had the courage to introduce it again, though there were many
things she wanted to say to him.
She kept watching Ellis with wistful eyes as she gathered and carried
away from her room the scattered gifts for the peasant friends she loved
so well.
After they were all cleared away, she lay quietly back on the sofa, and
there was a far-away look in her eyes that made her father unwilling to
ask where her thoughts were. Presently she turned to him, and said in a
low, nervous tone, "Papa, I want to ask you something. May I do exactly
as I like with all my own things?"
"Certainly, darling. What treasure do you wish to send to the little
Morag? But I thought Ellis was doubtful if she could stow all the things
you have already sent,--eh, Blanchie?"
"Oh, I did not mean in the box, papa! But you know it cannot be very
long now before I have to leave you--and everything," and Blanche's
fluttering fingers, so wan and wasted now, played nervously with her
father's hand as she spoke.
"Of course you will keep everything you want--and Miss Prosser and Ellis
will, too. But I should like Morag to have some of my things when I am
gone. She has so few pretty things in the hut; and besides, I really do
think she would like to have them, just because they are mine, and they
will remind her of me when I'm far away;" and Blanche glanced round the
room at the pretty statuettes and pictures, and the rows of nicely-bound
books, of which she used to tell Morag, as they rambled among the woods
and braes of Glen Eagle.
"Yes, my darling; Morag shall have whatever you like," replied Mr.
Clifford with an effort, as soon as he was able to speak; and presently
he continued: "My child, perhaps I should tell you that you have a great
deal more to give away than your books and pictures. You are what people
call an heiress, Blanchie. Your mother left you a large fortune, and,
besides, you will have all that belongs to me. Ah, my child! will you
not live?--I cannot let you go! There is such a bright future in store
for you--so many hopes bound up in this dear life!"
"Yes, papa, dear; the future _is_ bright," replied Blanche, smiling. "I
was reading about it only this morning--'an inheritance, incorruptible,
undefiled, and that fadeth not away.' I learnt the words. It was strange
I never remember hearing them till to-day. But I suppose God just speaks
His own words to us when we need them and will listen to them. It's all
right, papa, dear," she continued as she put her arm round her father's
neck, as he sat with his head resting on his hand, absorbed in his own
sad thoughts. "I know the Lord Jesus Christ will comfort you when I am
gone. And then, you know, papa dear, you will not be so very long in
coming, and I shall be waiting for you, oh! so eagerly, and we shall be
so happy together in the home of God!"
"Is it not rather difficult for rich people to be good, papa?" asked
Blanche, after she had laid pondering a short time. "If I had lived,
perhaps I might have grown into a grand lady--like some of Ellis's
mistresses that she tells me about--and got selfish and bad when I grew
old. But now, papa, dear, I shall always be your own foolish little
Blanchie," and she nestled in her father's arm, as he stroked the long
fair curls--the last symbol of health that remained.
After she had again laid musing for some time, Blanche sat up, and with
some of her old eagerness she said--
"Papa, I've just been thinking that Morag is so gentle, and so clever,
and so fond of books, that I'm sure she would grow up very learned if
she were educated. I know she would like lessons a great deal more than
I used to do, and be much more diligent. Have I enough money to educate
Morag, papa?"
"Yes, darling, quite enough; and if you wish it, it shall be done,"
replied Mr. Clifford huskily, for this conversation was almost too
painful for him to continue.
"But after all, papa, very clever people, who know everything, are not
always very happy or good--are they? And, besides, I really do not see
how her father and Kirsty could get on without Morag. And then she is so
faithful and loving--perhaps she could never be persuaded to leave them,
to be made a lady of in the world beyond her mountains," said Blanche,
smiling, as the image of her shy little mountain friend rose before her.
"No, papa, dear," she said presently, after thinking quietly for a
little; "I really think we must give up that idea after all. I do
believe the Lord Jesus Christ would like best that Morag should stay in
the Glen and make her father and Kirsty comfortable and happy as they
get older. But I'll tell you what we might do, papa, dear. Would there
be enough money to build a nice new house for Morag and her father? That
hut among the crags must tumble to pieces one day before long, I should
think, though certainly Morag does make it look as nice as possible,"
added Blanche, pathetically, for she remembered well the morning on
which she saw it last.
Her father listened with a sad interest as Blanche told the story of
that day's troubles, and how sorry she had been to leave Glen Eagle
without taking farewell of her mountain friend. And as she told how she
had hurried up the hill to the little shieling among the crags, only to
find it empty, and glowingly described the pleasant interior into which
her friend had transformed the once wretched hut, the scene seemed to
come vividly to her memory, and to bring with it an intense desire for
life, as she lay on the borders of the far-off land!
Some hot tears stole down her cheeks, and with quivering lip and clasped
hands she gazed wistfully into her father's face as she said--
"O papa! if I could only walk one afternoon with Morag in the fir-wood,
I almost think I should feel well again!"