WHEN GOD DREW NEAR AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE.
"And is that the word you are going to send back, Olive?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Roger must go abroad, alone?"
"I suppose so, if he goes at all."
Mr. Congreve sighed, and Olive began to tap her foot impatiently on the
grass.
"Uncle Ridley, I couldn't; I should hate him; I should hate myself and
my art, too, if I felt that I owed all its success to some one else. He
would be miserably unhappy, and so would I. Even if I loved him as he
wants me to, I couldn't accept everything from him."
"Too proud, Olive, too proud; but then I suppose you are right; indeed,
I shouldn't wonder if you were," muttered the old gentleman, walking
slowly back and forth with his eyes down. "But I hate to take this word
back to the boy, I do indeed."
"Well, I'm sure, he's a man, and I really think by this time, that he is
quite reconciled to it. At any rate, he'll get over it before long,"
said Olive complacently.
"God bless my soul!" cried Mr. Congreve, pausing before her, with a
puzzled wonder in his shrewd eyes. "Do you honestly so little realize
what Roger's nature is, or how much the boy loves you, and how he is
waiting to hear what word I bring!"
"He ought to know by this time that it is the same I gave to him. I told
you, no, the day after you gave me the letter; surely, you told him so
when you wrote."
"But I didn't, though. I thought, like as not, with the prospect of
travel, you might change your mind after you'd thought about it more,
and I told him that I was giving you time."
"You must think I am very weak and uncertain," said Olive with some
impatience. "If he really is anxious for an answer, it is unkind to keep
him waiting."
"Well, well, that's so, I know, but I must confess that I thought the
masters and travel would bring you 'round," and Mr. Congreve shook his
head, as if in dire perplexity.
"I had rather work day and night, and win my own success, be it ever so
little, than to owe the widest fame to another. Besides, I don't want to
be married, I wouldn't be for anything; I want to belong to myself, and
do as I please!" cried Olive, vehemently; then slipped her arm through
his, with a little coaxing gesture, such as she sometime used with the
crusty old man, and said:
"There, Uncle Ridley, it is all settled, so let's not speak of it any
more. There come Walter and Bea; we'll walk down to the gate and meet
them."
This was all a month after the wedding, and it was the loveliest June
Sunday, imaginable. Mr. Congreve had dreaded so to go back to Virginia
without Jean, that he had yielded to their entreaties, and spent that
length of time with them; but now he was going on the next day; and the
old gentleman's feelings were so deeply stirred with the thought that he
was obliged to resort to his crusty manners to hide them. He had most
fervently hoped that Olive would change her mind, though possessed with
an inward conviction that she would not; yet even while he so deeply
regretted her decision, he could not but admire the independence, that
refused to sit with idle hands, and receive every advantage and
advancement from another. Surely, if Olive ever did marry, she would
bring something to her husband besides her dependent self, and he might
know, above all doubts, that indeed, he was truly loved in her heart of
hearts.
Every member of the family had grown to dearly love the crusty, abrupt,
peculiar old man, who wore the goodness of his heart like a mantle about
him, yet so modest with it. They never knew, until after he had left
them, how much good he had quietly done in his morning walks about
Canfield. How he had bought poor little lame Katie Gregg a great wax
doll, that could speak and cry; filled the pantry of the hard-working
widow mother with packages unnumbered, pretending to be so innocent of
the deed, when she found who was the giver, and tried to thank him.
There came to them, for many days after he had gone, reports, here and
there, of the little deeds of kindness and acts of thoughtful
generosity, the need of which, he had discovered at odd times and said
nothing about, with the modesty which is characteristic of the true
giver.
The parting was a truly sad one, yet not without its funny side, for the
old gentleman was so torn up in mind that his actions were irresistibly
funny. He whisked his red handkerchief about with such energy that its
edges were pretty near in strips; and he blew his poor old nose in such
repeated and violent fashions, that it clearly resembled a highly
colored tomato.
"There won't be any little girl any where," he said, mournfully. "It
will be so lonesome in the morning, and in the evening, and all in the
day, and I will wonder if Jeanie is never coming down stairs to sit in
my lap in the old library. I shall get cross, and ugly as a bear, for
want of two little hands to smooth the wrinkles out of my old forehead,
and a dear little girl to keep my heart in good working order. It will
all be dreadful! dreadful!"
There was something pathetic in the picture they made, sitting there.
The old man, with his white head and tear dimmed eyes, holding Jean in
his lap, with her arms about his neck, and his wrinkled cheek rested on
her curly hair.
"I haven't very much longer to live," he went on, in that pathetic way,
"and I shall have to crawl through the last little while all by myself.
I suppose the dear good Lord knows best, but I don't see why He gave me
two little girls to love, and then took them both away. Even Olive won't
go back with me, and Roger will go off, and it will be dreadful!
dreadful!"
So far down had the poor man's spirits gone, that he seemed perfectly
lost in pathetic resignation. Even the apparently unquenchable
handkerchief hung limp and inactive from a coat-tail pocket, where it
had been jammed in a moment of unresigned despair; and the big tears
dropped one by one on Jeanie's hair, as he talked now in that quiet,
grieved way.
"Will you come back to us?" asked Mrs. Dering, much touched, and laying
her hands on his shoulder. "We should so love to have you, Uncle Ridley,
all of us. Go home and send Roger off if he wants to go; leave the Hall
with such old servants as you can trust, and then come back to us, and
call this home. Will you?"
"Will I?" Mr. Congreve jumped up, and the handkerchief came out in all
its color and activity. "Are you really in earnest, Elizabeth? Would you
have such a crusty old humbug as I am, around?"
"In the truest and warmest earnest, Uncle Ridley."
"Oh, please do," cried Jean eagerly; and the other girls echoed it.
"If I ever! God bless my soul! I never did!" exclaimed Mr. Congreve,
falling back into his chair, perfectly overcome. "You will let me come
and stay till next summer, then you and Jean and Ernestine go home with
me, as you promised?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Dering.
"Well, well, I might have known that the good Lord would fix it some
way. That's just the thing. I'll do it, Elizabeth; I will. Where's my
snuff-box and satchel! It's pretty near train time."
Jean ran to get them, while Mr. Congreve went up stairs to say good-bye
to Ernestine; and when he went off at last, it was in the gayest
possible spirits, with promises to be back as soon as Roger started
abroad; and so all the sadness was taken from the parting.
They thought he would be back in, at least, a month, but the time
lengthened itself into three and four, and yet he did not come. Roger
was sick, to begin with, and did not gain strength very rapidly, and
nothing could have made the old man leave him.
"But I can stand it very well," he wrote. "I know that it's not going to
last, so I can keep up plenty of spirits, with thinking of the time when
I will come. The boy is getting better fast, and as soon as he settles
up a little business, he is off, and then I will shut up and be off
likewise, in a hurry."
But they at home, found hands and hearts busy with new work that was
sadly brief and bitter. As the warm weather came, Ernestine began to
fail rapidly. She suffered no new pain, and uttered no complaint, but as
the days went by, and the intense heat of summer burned all purity and
life from the air, she just seemed to droop, and bow her head feebly
beneath the oppressive heat; and the frail stem of life snapped, with
the weight of its own slight self. They had hoped against hope, that the
sad end could be fought off, and with the first coming of warm days,
Mrs. Dering had proposed going to the sea-side with her; but Dr.
Barnett, who had fought eagerly and desperately with the dread disease,
told them that it would do no good. The excitement might only hasten the
end, and better to leave her quiet, and so contentedly happy as she
seemed, than to bring new faces and new scenes to worry and distract the
last feeble remnant of her strength. So they submitted themselves to his
word, as one of authority, and took upon themselves the sad duty of
watching a loved life drift peacefully out, and trying to say, as the
end drew near: "Thy will be done."
The big rocking-chair, the pretty wrappers, and gayly colored sacques
were all laid aside now. The feeblest strength could no longer lift the
frail form, and all the patient sufferer said when lifted or moved was,
"I'm so tired; that will do; it is quite easy." Then the short breath
would give out, and she could only thank them with her eyes, that daily
grew more eloquently beautiful, as though the spirit, refined through
suffering, were taking its last, long farewell look at mother and
sisters, and uttering wordless thanks, which the heart loving then
framed, but the lips weakly refused to utter.
"The end is not far off," Dr. Barnett said, one sultry August night,
after he had left the sick-room. "I shall go down and telegraph for
Olive to come on the first train."
Mrs. Dering laid her clasped hands on his arms with a little gasp, as of
one long expecting a bitter draught, and finding the cup held to her
lips at last. But she was very quiet.
"You think it will come to-night?"
"Hardly. She may live through to-morrow, but no longer, mother."
There was something so helpful in his presence, the warm, loving
utterance of that dear name, and the strong, tender clasp of his hands,
and she clung to him for a moment, as in recognition of the comfort and
help he was, and had been in these sad days.
"They have telegraphed for Olive," Kittie whispered to Kat and Jean, as
they three sat sleeplessly on the bedside, with their arms about each
other, and a pale, hushed awe in their faces.
"That means that she is going to die," cried Kat, trembling. "Oh, how
dreadful it is! I don't think it's right, no I don't."
"Hush," said Kittie, solemnly; but she couldn't say any more. Her own
heart was sadly rebellious, and could not think it was right.
"It must be," said Jean slowly, in her sweet, quiet way. "God never
does what isn't right; He can't, girls, though we can't always
understand why some things are."
No one was disposed to speak further on the subject, the like of which
has vexed many great minds, the world over, but they sat there hushed
and quiet, and with awe-stricken hearts, as though they heard or felt
the noiseless approach of the coming king, who passed them by, and went
into the room where the pale mother watched and prayed beside the quiet
sleeper.
Dr. Barnett came back soon, and brought Bea with him; but after looking
in to speak a few hurried words that tried to be of comfort, she went
into the other room, to take her place by the bedside, while the worn
mother snatched a little rest, if not sleep, on the lounge near by. So
the night crept slowly by, while anxious hearts and sleepless eyes kept
sad vigil. In the first grey dawn of morning, Olive came; but when
daylight fairly blushed into rosy sunshine, Ernestine awoke from a long
sleep, clear-eyed, feverless, and rational, and recognized them all with
a quiet, peaceful smile.
"You home in the middle of the week?" she said to Olive, with a little
wondering surprise.
Dr. Barnett sent one swift, wordless glance of warning, and Olive caught
it.
"Yes, I was not very busy this week and thought I would come home last
night," she said, warmly pressing the almost transparent fingers lying
on the coverlid, adding brightly: "How well you look this morning!"
"I feel better," answered Ernestine, slowly. "So strangely better; all
rested and in no pain. Where is mama?"
"Here, darling."
"I--I feel so much better, mama," lifting the feeble hand, with a look
of pleasure in her wan face. "It seems as if I was lying on the softest
feathers, and all well again. Everything is so very easy, and I haven't
any pain."
"You are much better, dear, and we are very glad;" but Mrs. Dering bent
her head as she spoke, that no one might see the tremble of her lips,
for well she knew, without any word or glance at her son-in-law's face,
that the sufferer was passing into the sunlight of God's rest and love,
and that the passing away of pain was because His hand had already
touched her.
But to the girls it seemed different. To them, the clear, bright eyes,
the quiet, easy breathing, and restful feeling, meant better for life,
and they had a joyful jubilant time over it down stairs. They gathered
the loveliest flowers in bloom, and took them up stairs, and Ernestine
smiled brightly and even held them for a few moments in her weak hands,
keeping a pure, pale, creamy bud, when they put the rest in water.
During the day Dr. Barnett brought some mail from the office, among
which was a letter from Ralph for Kat, and a strange one from New York
for Kittie, which proved to be from Mr. Murray.
"How funny!" she said, with a pleased smile.
"What is he writing to you for?" inquired Kat, sharing the general
interest and curiosity to such an extent that she forgot her own letter.
"Is Pansy sick?"
"No; he only says how she is, and how she wishes for me every day, and
wants me to write a letter, all to herself," answered Kittie, too busy
running her eyes over the few lines, with the signature
"Yours, most sincerely,
"PAUL MURRAY."
in bold, handsome hand, to notice the different expressions in the eyes
that were watching her pleased, smiling face. Perhaps no one detected
therein just what Mrs. Dering did, for it takes a marvelously small
thing, to open a mother's eyes. But then Kittie's pleasure was as
innocent as a child's; she read that letter over and over, and admired
the beautiful writing, but thought that all her pleasure grew from the
fact of hearing from Pansy, who had been gone a month, and said, as she
put it in her pocket, "It was very kind in Mr. Murray to write, I'm sure
for I did want to hear from Pansy."
But every one forgot the letters after awhile.
At supper-time Ernestine asked for something to eat. She even raised
herself from the pillow by her own strength, and said how very hungry
she was, and as the girls left the room to get what she asked for, a
strange cold thrill struck their hearts. Eagerly, as though famishing,
Ernestine ate the cream toast that they brought, drank the chocolate,
and asked for more.
"Give her all she wants," said Dr. Barnett, in answer to an appealing
look from Mrs. Dering; and so they brought more, with the strange pain
still in their hearts; and she ate it eagerly, with that unearthly
brightness in her eyes, and such a fluttering stain of scarlet in her
wasted cheeks. The sad truth came first to Beatrice, as she looked from
husband to mother, and read it in their pale, quiet faces; then it came
to Olive, for she drew near, and put her arm around Bea, with a touch
that both gave and asked for help; and then Kittie and Kat, seeing the
hopeless sadness in their faces, suddenly realized that they stood in
the dread presence at last, and with one accord turned to each other for
help; while Jean crept to her mother's side, and hid her face in the
folds of her dress. So death found them, as he drew near, and claimed a
place before mother, sisters, or brother; but he did not come
repulsively, or like the grinning head that portrays him to our mind's
eye; instead, it seemed as though a white angel, with kindly eyes had
drawn near, and breathed upon the sufferer before he kissed the life
from her lips; for after a short stupor Ernestine awoke, and looked upon
them with peaceful, shining eyes.
"Don't cry," she said, softly. "I am only going before, as papa did. I
think I saw him while I slept, and I am not afraid. It is not a dark
river, mama, but beautiful and bright, and nothing can happen, for God
stands there and smiles. Please don't cry, or shut the windows; let the
sunshine come in, and be glad that I will never suffer any more. Lift me
up, mama."
Mrs. Dering did so, and with her head pillowed on that dear breast,
Ernestine sank to sleep like a child, breathing softly; while the
shadows fell, and no one stirred. But the early moon rose slowly, and
lighted the room, and as she drew her last breath, with a fluttering
little sigh, it fell across her face, pure and sweet, and touched the
withered rose-bud, lying on the pillow.