THE PASSING OF ETHEL
As soon as Tommy realized that Ethel was really sick there came a
revulsion of feeling such as all generous natures are subject to. He
was no longer angry or sulky. He racked his brains to discover means
by which he could make amends for his unkindness of the afternoon.
Tommy had one great treasure which no one was allowed to touch. This
was a precious silver mug, a birthday present. He never used it except
on some very extraordinary occasion. It was rarely taken from his
mother's china-closet, where it occupied a place of honor. Now he
thought of this mug, but first he took a pitcher out to the pump and
used the handle vigorously until his arms ached. He then went to the
cupboard and took out his great treasure, carrying it and the pitcher
to where Ethel was lying.
"Sissie dear," he said softly, "I'm awful sorry I've been mean to you
's afternoon. I didn't know you were sick, sure. If I had known that
I'd got you a barrelful of water, sure I would."
Ethel opened her eyes with a pleasant smile. She knew that Tommy loved
her. He was trying to make amends. That was enough to make her happy.
"Here, Ethel, dear. I've brought you the coldest water I could get
from the well, and here's my silver cup to drink it out of."
The little sufferer was now too far gone to care for water. Wishing to
respond to her brother's kindness she took the mug and put it to her
lips, as if drinking a long draught. But Tommy saw she was not
drinking.
"Why, Ethel, you only make believe! Don't be afraid to drink. I'll
keep on carrying in pitchers all night if you want 'em. 'Taint no
trouble at all for me."
Ethel saw his generosity of purpose and smiled again.
"Drink some more, Ethel. It's good." She could not resist such
importunity, and she drank some of the water, more than she needed, in
order to please him.
Tommy exaggerated his fault in his own eyes. Now, in order to make
amends, he strove urgently to make his sister drink, coaxing her at
least every ten minutes to do so, until at last she was fain to tell
him it was impossible for her to take any more. If he could not make
her drink, he could, nevertheless, keep the water cool, so he changed
it at least every fifteen minutes. Who shall say but what the angels
carried these crude acts of reparation to the Mercy Seat, and brought
back blessings for sorrowful Tommy?
Ethel realized that she was very ill. The doctor's grave face
confirmed her worst fears. She did not fear to die. Had she not gone
to confession every week for a year past, and although the pure little
child knew it not, the good priest knew full well that for weeks
together he scarcely found matter for absolution. She did not want to
die, not yet at least, if it were the will of God, until she had made
her First Communion. Her pure soul had not yet been strengthened by
the Bread of Angels. How ardently for months she had longed for the
day of her First Communion, and now it seemed so hard to die before
that great event. Would not the sweet Jesus spare her at least until
she could receive Him! Long and earnestly, on her couch of suffering,
she prayed that she might receive this supreme happiness. She knew
that she was dying. The frightful pain in her back told her, as she
lay there in such helplessness, that her weakness could not long
battle against so sudden and so violent an attack. But oh, to be
deprived of the great privilege!
"Lord, I am not worthy! Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come
to me! Come, oh, come, my Lord Jesus!" she repeated again and again,
between her acts of contrition.
It was in this hour of supreme suspense and anxiety of her parents
that Ethel's beautiful character shone forth. Patient, humble,
thankful for the least kindness shown, or office performed for her,
she fairly broke the heart of father and mother, who now realized,
more completely than ever, what a beautiful treasure they were losing.
The priest was grieved to see this stricken one of his flock. Ethel's
eyes brightened when she saw him. He heard the child's last confession
and administered Extreme Unction. Long the confession lasted--those
guileless self-accusations of an almost guiltless soul. When the
family were re-admitted they saw that both priest and penitent had
been weeping.
"Has the poor child told you her greatest desire, Father?" asked the
grieving mother.
"Yes. I have no hesitation in giving her Holy Communion. She was
sufficiently prepared a year ago. If you will make the proper
preparations I will bring the Holy Sacrament and administer First
Communion."
Not until Tommy saw the priest visit the house, and learned that his
sister had been anointed did he realize that she was dangerously ill.
When the priest left, he rushed to the couch, and kneeling, took
Ethel's hand and covered it with tears and kisses, crying passionately
with heartrending sobs:
"Ethel, Ethel, Ethel! don't die, don't die yet! Ask God and His Mother
to make you well again. You know they will if you ask them." His cry
was an unconscious tribute to his sister's goodness.
Ethel waited with joy and calmness the approach of her Lord. Very soon
the priest, bearing the Sacred Host, arrived and the whole household
assembled to honor the divine Visitor, and to pray for the departing
soul.
Notwithstanding her intense pain, Ethel appeared to be in a transport
of joy. Her calm, waxlike face was faintly flushed at the fulfilment
of her ardent longings. As she lay making fervent acts of love and
thanksgiving, she resembled an angel rather than a child of human
clay. So thought her spiritual director as he gave her the last
absolution and blessing and began to recite the prayers for the dying.
Tommy's grief became deeper and more demonstrative. His mother gently
drew him into the next room, telling him it was for Ethel's good, as
he was disturbing her recollection and happiness. With this assurance
he became content, although he sobbed as if his heart would break.
Silently, and in helpless, though resigned, anguish the father and
mother watched through the long night the flickering spark of life
fade and expire. More than once during these long hours they believed
the beautiful soul had flown to God, its Maker. Hoping against hope,
they earnestly desired that she might last until Roy should reach home
at seven, but about three the end came.
"Fetch the boy," said the father, in a whisper. Mrs. Henning softly
left the room. She found Tommy, his face all tear-stained, asleep on
the mat just outside the door. Gently waking him, she told him to come
to Ethel. The boy, alert in a moment at the sound of her name, came
slowly into the room. Neither father nor mother spoke, but the latter
led him to the couch where lay the lifeless form of his sister still
holding the crucifix in her hand. Her pure soul had flown.
Seeing that she had passed away, the boy bent down and kissed her
white forehead and her lips. His mother involuntarily moved a step
nearer, intending to catch and console him in his first wild burst of
grief. To her surprise the boy neither wept nor spoke. He took one
long look at the placid face of his dead sister, and turned away,
going out into the open air of the warm night. By the first gray
streaks of dawn he wandered through the garden path down to the pond.
There lay the boat as he had left it, half drawn up on the shore, and
there, withered, lay the lilies she had gathered. The boy remembered
how she had used all her little strength to pull up one large bud. She
had, at length, laughingly succeeded, dropping it into the boat and
letting the long stalk hang in the water.
As the gloaming of the sad day of the funeral drew on Tommy took his
beads from his pocket. Then came the realization that he was alone to
say them.
"Ethel! Ethel!" he cried, and the floodgates of his tears were open.
Big, strong Roy caught him up in his arms as he would a baby. There
Tommy, resting his tired little head on his big brother's breast, wept
unrestrainedly.
On the day of the passing of Ethel Roy pondered long about sending a
message to his friends at St. Cuthbert's. He could not decide to whom
to send it. Bracebridge, Beecham, Shealey, Gill, and Jones, all were
thought of, but he remained undecided. While thinking over this, his
aunt, Andrew Garrett's mother, entered the room. Roy loved this good
and beautiful woman almost as much as he loved his own mother, whom
she was supporting and comforting in her sudden affliction.
"I am glad you received my telegram in time," she said. "You will be
just now such a support and comfort to your mother and father, Roy, in
their sorrow." She kissed him on the forehead.
"When the sickness came to Ethel," she continued, "they were both too
distracted by grief to think of sending for you, so I wired in your
father's name."
Roy made up his mind about his message. He filled out a blank:
"Dear Andrew: Ethel passed away at three. Pray and get prayers for
her. I know you will. Roy."
For many a long day after, Roy Henning had reason to bless the
influence which prompted him to send this message to his cousin,
rather than to any one else. The message had the effect of working a
wonderful change in Andrew Garrett, so that when Roy next saw him, he
scarcely recognized him. Many strange things will happen before Roy
again sees his cousin.