A FADING FLOWER.
"The coldness from my heart is gone,
But still the weight is there,
And thoughts which I abhor will come,
And tempt me to despair.
"Those thoughts I constantly repel;
And all, methinks, might yet be well,
Could I but weep once more;
And with true tears of penitence
My dreadful state deplore."
SOUTHEY.
The long hours of night wore away, and the morning broke, bright, fresh,
and frosty. Then the long corridor and passages echoed with the sound of
hasty footsteps hurrying through them, while the quick, sudden opening
and shutting of doors betokened an unusual stir in the Hall. The
children were preparing for their journey.
Half an hour later all was silent and still, more so than it had been
for days. The children were gone.
Again we enter the sick room. Bertie is no better, but, if anything,
worse; his little face more flushed and heated, his burning hands
wandering restlessly about, to and fro, as he tosses and turns upon his
little cot, his anxious eyes no longer looking mournfully, and as it
were imploringly in his mother's face for help from his pain, for Bertie
is delirious, and does not even recognise her; his thoughts ramble, and
he talks incoherently and strangely.
Mrs. Hopkins often came to see him, bringing, as was her wont, in cases
of illness, broths and cooling drinks she had prepared with her own
hand; but Bertie was too ill to heed them, and Amy could but look her
thanks--words she had none.
It was on returning from one of these visits, with cup and saucer in
hand, that she met Frances Strickland.
"Have you been to see Master Bertie?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss," replied Mrs. Hopkins, with a sigh.
"And how is he? Do you think he is any better this morning?"
"No, Miss, I don't. It's my belief he couldn't well be worse; but the
doctor'll know better than me. I suppose he'll be here presently."
"What makes you think him so ill?"
"I've been the mother of four, Miss, and lost them all, and none of them
looked a bit worse than Master Bertie, poor, innocent lamb."
"But you had not two doctors," returned Frances.
"No, nor half the nurses to wait on mine; but I'd the same loving,
craving mother's heart and the same God to look up to and hope in," and
the housekeeper passed on, as the rebuke fell from her lips.
"Oh! I wish I could hope, I wish I could pray," cried Frances, as she
went once more into the solitude of her own room; not only did she
grieve for Bertie, but the terror lest through her means he should die
had at last brought repentance to her unfeeling heart; she had been so
wicked, so relentlessly cruel to his mother, that perhaps the boy's
death was to be her punishment; and she could think of, scarcely look
forward to, anything else.
Dr. Bernard stayed at the Park all that night; he whispered no decided
hope to Amy's heart. There was only a very grave look on his face as
after bending over Bertie and feeling the quick, sharp pulse beating so
fiercely against his finger, he said, "While there is life there is
hope," and Amy was obliged to content her poor heart with this, and
repeat it over and over again to herself all through that long sad
night; the second of Bertie's illness, and of her own and her husband's
watch, for Robert scarcely ever left his boy, but remained through the
weary hours of night patiently by his side; only old Hannah snatching
every now and then a moment's sleep.
Towards the morning Bertie grew more composed, the hands tossed about
less restlessly, and the weary, anxious eyes closed in sleep: so calm
and still he looked that Amy bent down her head to catch the faint
breath.
"It is not death?" she said to Dr. Bernard, who had been hastily
aroused.
"No. The crisis is past I hope. The fever has left him. It is weakness,
excessive weakness," but he did not add that that was as much to be
dreaded as the fever; while Amy only prayed that when he awoke he would
recognise her, so long it seemed since his little lips had said "Mamma."
Just before luncheon, Anne with her husband drove up to the Hall. She
was rushing into the morning-room with her usual haste and merry laugh,
when she was checked by Mrs. Linchmore's grave face.
"Has anything happened, Isabella? How grave you look."
Yes a great deal had happened; she had a great deal to hear, and Anne
sat herself down to listen to it all patiently--or as patiently as she
could to the end. As soon as it was told, she was rushing impetuously
from the room.
"Is the boy in the small red room?" she asked.
"Yes. But Anne, the fever is infectious; you had better stay away. Mrs.
Vavasour can come and see you here."
"As if she would leave him?" she cried, "not a bit of it, I know her
better, besides I am not afraid of anything. I shall go." Anne was
right, there was very little indeed she was afraid of.
"But Anne, think of your husband; he might not like it."
"Ah! true; how tiresome it is sometimes to have a husband! I suppose I
shall have to wait a whole hour before he thinks of coming back."
"Did he drive in with you?"
"Yes, and has gone on in the pony carriage to call at the Rectory. Isn't
it provoking. I have a great mind not to wait for him."
"It might have been a great deal worse; suppose he had not driven in
with you?"
"Then I should have braved his anger and been at the boy's bed-side long
ago," and she walked to the window, and strained her eyes impatiently
down the drive.
"Have you seen the child today?" she asked presently.
"No, not since his illness; but Dr. Bernard tells me the fever left him
early this morning."
"It did? Oh! then he'll soon get better."
"But he is so excessively weak, that he holds out small hopes of his
recovery."
"Poor dear Amy, how sad for her. Ah! there's the carriage at last; how
delightful! Mr. Russell could not have been at home." And away she flew
down the stairs, and stood impatiently on the terrace.
"My dear Thomas," she exclaimed, "how slowly you drive. I always tell
you you indulge the pony fearfully when I am not with you."
Mr. Hall looked in surprise at his wife's anxious face. "Why, Anne," he
said, "I had no idea you were in such a desperate hurry to return home,
or I might have driven a little quicker."
"Return," she cried, "I am not thinking of such a thing. I want to stay
for a week, if you will only let me, and Isabella does not object; you
can go and arrange it with her presently," said she, in her impetuous
way.
"But I have yet to hear why I am to do all this," returned her husband.
"Ah, I forgot! It's because poor Amy Vavasour's child, that little boy
we saw when we were last here, is dying of some fever. They say it's
infectious, but you will not mind that, will you? I am not a bit afraid,
and I do so want to comfort Amy."
Mr. Hall looked very grave.
"Oh, don't consider about it," she said, "you can stay, too, you know;
there is no reason why you should go home before Saturday."
"It is not that," he replied, "but this fever is infectious, Anne, and
you will be running a great risk."
"Do not think about it, Tom. I shall fret myself into a worse fever at
home, and besides, think of poor Amy. I do not believe you can be so
hard-hearted as to refuse me."
So in the end, much against his wish, Mr. Hall yielded, and while he
went to propose the plan to Mrs. Linchmore Anne went off on her mission
of mercy, and was repaid by the sad smile, and almost glad light in
Amy's eyes as she greeted her.
Anne was shocked at the change in the boy; shocked too, with the
mother's wan, haggard look.
"My Mistress hasn't been in bed for these two nights past, Miss," said
Nurse, interpreting Anne's thoughts.
Not for two nights? It was absolutely necessary she should have some
repose; so Anne set herself to work to accomplish it.
"Why not lie down, Amy, while your boy is asleep?"
"Impossible!" was the firm reply, "I could not."
"But you will wear yourself out, you cannot possibly be of any use while
he sleeps. I will sit by him for you, and call you the moment he wakes."
"No, I must be by him when he wakes, I could not bear to think he looked
at anyone else first; he has not known me for so long, that my heart is
craving for some sign to show that he recognises me."
This was conclusive, and Anne urged no more, but Robert said, "I think
Mrs. Hall is right, Amy, in advising you to rest."
"But I cannot leave the room, indeed I cannot."
"There is no occasion for your doing so, you can lie on Hannah's bed."
Anne expected a fresh expostulation, but no, Amy moved away at once, and
did as her husband wished.
"Where can I find a shawl for Amy, Mr. Vavasour?" said Anne, presently,
"she will be frozen over there, without some wrap."
He went away, and returned a moment after with one, which he spread over
Amy as she lay, but without, to Anne's astonishment, one loving word or
even look.
"Try and sleep," he said, gently, "I will call you in an hour."
She thanked him, and closed her eyes.
But long before the hour had passed away, she was at Bertie's bed-side,
with the little head nestled in her bosom, and the soft, thin hand
clasped in hers; he was too weak to say much, but he had named her, had
recognised her; that was enough, he would not die now, without giving
her one loving look. Die? Yes, she felt he would die, so thin and
wasted, so hollow his cheeks, so weak, so utterly weak; and then the
sorrowing faces of those around, the still graver one, and pitying words
of the old doctor. Ah! there was no need to tell her; her boy, her
beautiful boy, must die. Oh! the anguish of her heart, surely if a
fervent prayer could save him, he would be saved yet.
Anne stole away by and by to her husband, and found him busy unpacking a
carpet bag.
"I have been home and back again, Anne," he said, "and made Mary put
together the few things she thought you might require. I hope you will
find them all right."
"Oh! Tom, I do believe you are the only devoted, kind husband in the
whole world; how fortunate it was I married you when I did."
"Why so?" he asked.
"Because I see so many bad specimens of married life, that if I had
waited until now, I would not have had you at any price."
"Oh, yes, you would," he said.
"Don't be so conceited," she replied, "remember you have never been
drilled yet."
"I have my wife to be conceited of," he said, fondly; "and now Anne,
tell me what news of the child?" She was grave in a moment.
"There is no hope. None whatever. Dr. Bernard gives none."
"And the mother?"
"She is very quiet, very submissive under it all."
"She knows the worst, then?"
"She guesses it, and bears up wonderfully. How it will be by-and-by,
when the worst is over, I don't like, cannot bear to think of; you must
come and talk to her then?"
"I?" he said, "no, that will never do; she has her husband."
"He's a wretch! I have no patience with him. As cold as an icicle."
"My dear Anne," he said, reprovingly.
"Oh! my dear Tom, I am so glad you are not like him," and then she burst
out crying, a most unusual thing for her, "and I am so glad now I have
no children: it must be dreadful to lose them. After this I will be the
most contented little mortal going."
And she went back again to Amy, leaving her husband somewhat surprised,
and regretful that he should have consented to have allowed her to
remain in a scene evidently too much for her.
Bertie had roused again. "Where's Missy? I want Missy?" he said, feebly.
The cry went like a sharp knife through the mother's heart. She brought
him toys and pictures, telling him the history of each, and quieting him
as well as she could. At first he was amused and interested, but he soon
wearied, and said again, "I want Missy."
"Is it Alice he is crying for?" whispered Anne, as Amy moved away, and
sent Hannah to take her place by the bed.
"No, not Alice. Oh! Anne, he will break my heart. I had so hoped he had
forgotten her."
Again the little fretful cry sounded. "Tell Missy to come."
"I _must_ go," said Amy, "there is no help for it."
Frances had thrown herself despairingly on the bed, shutting out Jane,
her maid, who had tried to comfort her, and even Mrs. Linchmore. At one
moment she would not believe there was no hope--would not,--the next she
wept and moaned with the certainty that there could be none; as she saw
Amy enter, she covered her face with her hands, and groaned aloud;
thinking there was but one reason the mother could have in coming to see
her, and that was to upbraid her for having caused the death of her boy.
"Miss Strickland I said you should not see my boy, but I cannot refuse
his,--" Amy faltered,--"perhaps last request. He is asking for you. Will
you come?"
"Come!" exclaimed Frances, springing from the bed, and tossing back the
hair from off her throbbing temples, "do you think I could refuse
him--you, anything? and oh! forgive me, Mrs. Vavasour, for having caused
you all this utter misery."
"It is a fearful punishment," said Amy, looking at the ravages grief and
remorse had made in her beautiful face.
"Fearful!" she replied, "it will haunt me through life. Think of that,
and say one word of forgiveness, only one."
"I cannot forgive you, Miss Strickland. For my poor Bertie's illness I
do; that was an unintentional injury, but his mother's misery--broken
heart, no; that you might have prevented, and--and, God help me, but I
cannot forgive that."
"How could I hope you would," said Frances despairingly, as she prepared
to follow Amy.
"You must control your grief, Miss Strickland; be calm and passionless
as of old. My boy must see no tears."
"I wonder I have any to shed," she replied, "and God knows how I shall
bear to see him."
Anne looked bewildered as the door opened and Amy returned with Frances,
and still more so when she saw the child's face light up with pleasure,
and he tried in his feeble way to clasp her neck.
"I cannot bear to look at it," said Amy, as she softly left the room.
"Naughty! naughty Missy," he said as he kissed her.
Frances felt as if she could have died then, without one sigh of regret.
For a moment after he released her she did not raise her head.
"My dear,--dear Bertie," she said, struggling with her tears. Then
presently she sat down and fondled and stroked his thin small hand,
soothing and coaxing him as well as she was able. If her heart could
have broken, surely it would have broken then.
"Ah! he's thin enough now, Miss," observed Nurse, "even that sour
stiff-backed lady would have a hard matter to call him fat. He's never
been the same since she looked at him with those sharp ferret eyes of
hers;" and then she moved away and went and seated herself by the fire,
recounting the whole history to Anne, of not only her dislike for Miss
Barker, but the reason of Bertie's apparent partiality for Frances;
while the latter sat and listened to Bertie's talk, he wounding and
opening her heart afresh at every word he uttered.
"Naughty Missy not to come to Bertie!" he said; and Frances could not
tell him why she had stayed away; she could only remain silent and so
allow him to conclude she had been unkind.
She took up some of the books Amy had left.
"Here are pretty pictures," she said, "shall Missy tell you some of the
nice stories?"
"No, you mustn't. Mamma tells me them; I like her to, she tells them so
pretty."
"Is there nothing Missy can do for you? Shall she sing you a song?"
"Mamma sings 'Gentle Jesus;' you don't know one so pretty do you?"
"No, Bertie, I am sure I don't."
Presently his little face brightened. "I should like you to get me
kitty," he said.
"Yes. Who is kitty though?"
"That's what Master Bertie cried for the very day he was taken ill. It's
the kitten he saw in the village, Miss," said Hannah.
"Bertie shall have kitty," said Frances, decidedly. "Missy will fetch
her."
"Yes, she's big now, her mother won't cry," he said, as if not quite
satisfied that she would not.
It had come on to rain, since the morning but what cared Frances for
that; she scarcely stayed to snatch her hat and cloak before she was
hurrying through it. What cared she for the rain or anything else? Her
whole soul was with Bertie--the child who through her means was dying,
and yet had clasped her neck so lovingly as she bent over him dismayed
and appalled at the ravages illness had made in his sweet face.
There was only Matthew in the little parlour as she entered the cottage.
"You'd better not come in, Miss," he said "no offence, Miss, but my
sister-in-law's been ill with the fever these days past."
"It can make no difference now," she said, bitterly, "that little boy I
brought here only ten days ago is--is dying of the fever he caught
here."
"Lord save us! Miss, dying?" said Matthew regretfully.
"He has just asked for the kitten he saw here. Will you let him have it?
It may be," she said despairingly, seeing he hesitated, "only--only for
a day, or for--a few hours, you would never have the heart to refuse a
child's last wish." In days gone by she would have abused him for the
hand he had had in causing poor Bertie's illness, and her misery. But it
was different now.
"No, Miss, you're right, I haven't the heart to. What's the kitten's
life worth next to the young master's. Here take it and welcome; though
what the Missus'll say when she finds it's gone, and the old un a
howling about the place I don't know, but there, it can't be helped,"
said Matthew philosophically, as Frances wrapped the kitten up carefully
in her cloak, and hurried away.
The evening had closed in by the time Frances reached the Park again.
She hastily changed her wet things, and went at once to Bertie's room,
but her heart misgave her, as, going down the long corridor, she saw
Anne seated on the ledge of the large window, with the traces of tears
on her face.
"I am not too late?" she asked.
"I don't know," replied Anne. "He is very, very weak. I could not bear
to stay."
Frances went on, Robert, as well as Amy, was in the room. He moved a
little on one side to allow Frances to come near. "Bertie, my boy," he
said, "Missy has brought you Kitty."
Frances leant over, and placed it beside him.
He opened his eyes feebly, then took the kitten so full of life, and
nestled it to his side.
"Bertie is very sick," he said, weakly, as he tried to murmur his
thanks.
This was the first time he had spoken of feeling ill. How pitifully his
little childish words smote upon the hearts of his sad, sorrowing
parents.
"Bertie is very sick," he said again. "I think Bertie is going to die.
Poor Bertie!"
His mother's tears fell like rain. "God will take care of my boy for
me," she said. "My boy, my precious Bertie!"
"Yes; but you mustn't cry, you and Papa, and Hannah."
Robert's face was wet with tears, while old Hannah sat away in a corner,
with her face covered up in her apron, sobbing audibly; but she stifled
her sobs upon this, his--might be--last request.
"God bless you, Bertie," said Frances, in a broken voice, ere she went
away.
"Good night," he said. "You may have my top, for bringing me Kitty. Papa
will get it for you."
And then he turned his head away wearily, and begged his mother to hush
him in her arms to sleep. Robert lifted him gently, and laid him close
to Amy. She drew him near, nearer still to her poor breaking heart, but
she dared not press her lips to his, lest she should draw away the
feeble breath, already coming so faintly, growing fainter and fainter
every moment.
"Kitty must go back to her mother," he said. "Take care of Kitty--pretty
Kitty."
But soon he grew too weak to heed even Kitty, and could only murmur
short broken sentences about Papa, Mamma, and sometimes Missy.
Presently he roused again. "Don't cry, Papa, Mamma--Kiss
Bertie--Bertie's very sick. Tell Hannah to bring a light--Bertie wants
to see you."
Alas! his eyes had grown dim. He could no longer distinguish those he
loved best, those who could scarcely answer his cry for their tears.
They brought a light, old faithful Hannah did.
"Can you see me, my own darling?" asked Amy.
"No--no," he murmured, and his eyes closed gently, his breathing became
more gentle still; once more he said, lovingly, "Dear Papa,--Dear
Mamma," and then--he slept.
"Don't disturb him, Robert," sobbed Amy to her husband, who was kneeling
near.
But Bertie had gone to a sleep from which there was no awaking.
Bertie, little loving Bertie, was dead.
"Softly thou'st sunk to sleep,
From trials rude and sore;
Now the good Shepherd, with His sheep
Shall guard thee evermore."