CHRISTINA.
THREE months before this, two visitors were sitting in one of the large
houses in South Bay. The blinds were down, and the room, though large
and handsome, seemed dull and cheerless.
"Dear father," said the girl, addressing the old man tenderly, "you
will feel better for a cup of tea."
"No, my dear, I think not," he answered quietly.
"To please me, dear father," she still persisted.
And the old man allowed her to persuade him into drinking half a cup,
but he would not eat or come to the table.
Christina ate a slice of bread and butter mechanically, and swallowed
her tea, and had an almost guilty feeling when she felt less
unutterably desolate than she had done half an hour ago.
Her mother had died early in the afternoon. As yet the real desolation
had not swept over her. That would be, perhaps, when she had ministered
all she could to her bereaved father, and came to lay her head on her
pillow at night. Yes; the sorrow must wait till then.
She seated herself again by the arm-chair, and softly stroked her
father's hand. She felt anxious about him. He had given way to no
sorrow, had not, broken down in any way; but she thought he looked
exceedingly pale, and there was a gravity about him which she did not
quite like.
He soon took her hand in his, with a mute intimation that he did
not wish to be stroked. And after a long silence, he said gravely,
"Christina, my child, I do not think it will be long ere I follow your
mother home."
"Dear father," she answered deprecatingly, "do not say so; you will
feel better soon, I hope."
"I do not say it lightly, my dear; nor can I tell you why I think so;
but I feel assured of it."
Christina's heart gave a strange leap, and she felt powerless to say
anything to break the spell, as it were, of her father's words. It
was like walking with her eyes open over a frightful precipice. She
shuddered.
"My dear child," he continued quietly, "you have been a good daughter
to us—God bless you!—now I want to leave a few directions with you in
case it should be as I think it will. You will have enough to live on;
plenty for you, and a friend to take care of you. Christina, I should
like you to ask your aunt Mary to come and live with you. Promise me."
Christina, even in that bitter hour, felt a certain repugnance to
comply with her father's wish in this respect; but how could she
hesitate? She would have time to talk it over with him another day—not
now; oh, not now!
So she promised. "Anything you wish, my precious father!" she said,
with anguish in her voice.
"I do wish it; I know it will be best—for a few years at any rate, my
child."
They sat on in deep silence for some time longer. Then he spoke again;
but this time the voice was not grave and authoritative, but loving
and simple: "Christina, your mother and I have loved each other for
forty years. We have never been separated for a single day; we have
walked hand in hand all our pilgrimage; she has gone just a little way
in front, and I am following. My dear, let no one think I am following
her. Oh, blessed, blessed truth!
"'He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.'
"It is Jesus we follow, my dear. He has taken her this afternoon across
the water, and He tells me He thinks it is time for me to go too. But
if He did not, my dear, I should have to wait; yes, wait patiently for
the Lord.
"My child," he said again, clasping her hand tightly, "you must wait
for the Lord! I had hoped we should all welcome Him together when He
came; but He knows best!"
As the room darkened, Christina's desolation crept over her. She
still believed her dear father would feel better to-morrow; but, oh,
why could not she raise her head and trust in her God? What was this
anguish at her heart which made her shudder to think she should never,
never hear her mother's voice again? All the tenderness that she had
received from her, all her own waywardness in past times, all the sins
of her youth, flashed over her mind.
"Closed for ever," she said to herself; "that book can never be opened
again."
The room grew darker still. She ventured to chafe the fingers of the
loved hand she held. He did not respond; and she rose to light the
gas, feeling for the first time that perhaps she ought to speak to the
doctor about her father's low condition. But the fingers did not yield
as usual to her movement, and, terrified, she called him over and over
again. Then she stooped and kissed his forehead; it was cold; and at
that moment she knew that he too had been safely carried through the
dark river, and landed on the other side.
When supper-time had passed, and the maid at last entered the room, the
sight that met her eyes remained printed on her memory for many a long
day. In the arm-chair sat the dear old gentleman who had won all their
hearts, and kneeling before him, with her arms tightly clasped round
his neck, and her face buried in his breast, lay his daughter. Worn
out by long watching, spent with grief, and finding comfort for a few
moments in her passionate embrace, Christina had fallen asleep.
The people at the lodgings dared not wake her, but sent quickly for the
doctor, who lived near. He soon came; and in a moment whispered that
"their care must be for her."
A small mattress was lifted in; her clinging arms were tenderly
loosened, and she was laid upon it, and borne into the next room.
"He was all I had left," she murmured, as her head touched the
pillow—"all but Jesus."
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