BEREFT OF ALL.
WHEN the slumber passed away, which had mercifully deadened Christina's
sensations, she started up with a bewildered look round the room.
It was the bedroom her father had lately occupied. But no father lay in
the bed. She also found herself dressed in her clothes, and on a bed on
the floor.
Her father; where was he? Was he still sitting in the chair—so cold!
Could she not go and entreat him to rest?
She hurried to her feet; and as her senses became more fully awakened,
she began to have a certain dim perception that it would be of no use
to go to her father. Still she went. She opened the door noiselessly,
and stood on the quiet landing, in the still early morning before
anyone was up. Then she hesitated, and finally very cautiously opened
the drawing room door. The room was very still—very, very still, she
felt. She looked towards the arm-chair, and then she remembered more
of what had happened. Then her glance took in the sofa, hidden under a
snowy covering.
She knew now; knew all. She went up to it gently, and softly lifting
the sheet, gazed on the features. Then she stooped and kissed the
forehead tenderly.
"My beloved!" she said quietly, in a low caressing tone.
Turning away, she went softly upstairs. In the room above lay the
other loved one. She entered and, as she had done downstairs, lifted
the covering, and looked once more on this face too. She meant to be
very strong, and after softly kissing her mother's forehead was again
turning away, when a horror of great darkness fell upon her, and
throwing herself on her knees she gave way to the wildest weeping.
"Mother, mother!" she sobbed, "Why did you both leave me? My mother! My
father! I am bereft of all!"
She wept on till it seemed as if she had no more tears to weep,
and then she lay exhausted. Her own words kept on coming back to
her—"Bereft of all!" Ah! No one knew but her father and mother what she
had lost, only such a little while ago. No one could comfort her now—no
one!
Did no one know? In her anguish the words of peace stole over her
heart,—
"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you;"
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take
me up."
Over and over again the words seemed repeated to her distracted heart;
and after a time her faith began to take hold of them.
"I know it, Lord," she whispered; "why did I forget? Thou art my
portion! Thou dost comfort me!"
She rose now, and not daring to glance again at the bed, she went back
into the chamber where she had slept.
She washed her face and smoothed her hair, put her dress to rights
that she might look somewhat as usual, as if with a feeling of loyalty
towards Him who was taking her in His keeping; and then she descended
to the dining room and rang the bell. The maid answered it quickly.
"It is early," said Christina; "but I should like some breakfast,
Ellen, as soon as you can."
"Yes, miss," said Ellen, regarding her with sorrowful and awestruck
face.
"I have seen my dear father," she said gravely, in a steady voice; "and
you know, Ellen, he is where he wished to be—with Jesus; so we must
think of him so!"
"Yes, miss," said Ellen, weeping.
But Christina gently pointed towards the table, as if she could not
bear much more, and the girl hastily disappeared.
"She's like a ghost," she said downstairs, "for all she's so quiet; and
she would not let me talk to her, nor tell her how sorry I am."
"Better not, my dear," said the landlady kindly; "she has been up in
her mother's room this long time, for I saw her go in; and the best
thing you can do is to get her a cup of tea as quickly as you can."
* * * * * * *
In the long, quiet days which followed, Christina had ample time to
recollect her promise to her father. Tender as was the memory of that
conversation, dutiful as Christina was, she sought hard for some excuse
to evade the keeping of her promise.
"He would never have asked it from me if he had known how it would add
to my distress," she said to herself.
"To have fixed on her, above all people; she is so particular; and—Oh,
I do wish he had not asked it!"
Still he had asked it, and she had promised it, and very soon her
conscience told her there could be no evading this duty. She had given
directions that this aunt should be asked to the funeral. And she
herself, now her mind was made up, wrote a little note inviting her
to stay with her for a while. She could not make herself give a more
definite invitation.
The day before her loved ones were carried to the grave, Miss Arbuthnot
came. Christina met her at the drawing room door, and led her in,
looking in her face to see if she could do anything towards filling the
void at her heart. Her aunt pressed her hand earnestly, but did not
speak, and Christina undid her wrappings without a word.
"Shall I be able to see them?" at length Miss Arbuthnot said in a low
tone.
"I thought you would wish it; they are here," she answered, drawing
her aunt into the back room. Side by side, in the centre of the room,
lay the two peaceful faces, prepared for their long rest till the
resurrection morning. Christina made no remark; but when her aunt had
printed an agitated kiss on the two faces, and they were turning away,
she said solemnly, "I have come to feel it is better as it is; I do not
know what I could have done with one without the other. They loved each
other so tenderly. I am thankful it is as it is."
Thus Christina and her aunt settled down to their joint life. Christina
found her a very different companion from what she had feared. God's
grace had done much for Miss Arbuthnot. The loss of a favourite nephew
had almost broken her heart, and driven her to find comfort in God; and
now she could better sympathise with Christina's loss, and behaved as
wisely and as tenderly as was possible.
Thus the sacrifice on Christina's part was rendered less great than she
anticipated, and by-and-by she began to perceive some of the reasons
which might have made her father exact from her that promise. Her
generous heart soon told her that her aunt was very lonely living by
herself, and incidentally she gathered that when her father died, some
of her aunt's income ceased.
"Doubtless he knew that," thought Christina; "and I believe he trusted
me to be good to her. I will."
Thus Christina obeyed in "the letter and the spirit," and found
increasing happiness in doing so.
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